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MdHGARET  S.  CAHHART 


FREEDOM 


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FREEDOM 

A  PLAY  IN  THREE  ACTS 

BY 
ALFRED  SUTRO 


NEW   YORK 

B  RENTANO'S 

1916 


fRISTRD    IN    aHEAT    BRITAIN 

BY  TUE  COSfPLETK  PRESS 

WEST  NORWOOD 

EHQLAND 


6o37 


FOREWORD 

This  play,  at  which  I  had  been  working  for  over  a  year, 
was  finished  in  July  1914,  a  few  days  before  the  war 
broke  out.  It  was  to  have  been  produced  by  Mr.  Granville 
Barker,  and  to  follow  The  Cheat  Adventure.  When  that 
moment  arrived,  the  Germans  were  at  the  gates  of  Paris 
— and  it  was  obviously  not  the  time  to  put  upon  the 
stage  a  play  which  dealt  exclusively  with  questions  of 
sex.  That  time  seems  far  distant — and,  when  it  has 
come,  the  conditions,  the  environment,  will  be  no  longer 
the  same  as  when  the  play  was  written. 

Perhaps  one  of  the  most  definite  results  of  the  vast 
upheaval  that  is  shaking  the  world's  foundations  will 
be  the  development  it  will  have  brought  about  in  the 
character,  as  well  as  in  the  position,  of  women.  Before 
the  war,  the  most  eager  and  ardent  among  them  were 
concerned  with  problems  such  as  those  with  which  this 
little  play  deals ;  those  problems  have  become,  and  will 
continue,  secondary,  although  not  losing  their  importance, 
which  must  ever  remain  acute.  During  the  last  two 
years,  women  have  given  proof  of  such  heroism  and 
devotion,  they  have  so  magnificently,  and  with  such 
superb  acquiescence  and  mastery  of  self,  accepted  the 


712228 


FOREWORD 

burdens  which  fell  most  heavily  upon  them,  that  it  seems 
almost  an  impertinence  to  pubUsh  a  play  in  which  they 
are  shown  concerned  merely  with  one  minor  issue, 
struggling  for  a  freedom  that  affects  themselves  alone. 
Were  I  writing  the  play*to-day,  and  dealing  with  the  same 
theme,  I  would  have  conceived  a  different  class  of  woman 
— the  one  whom  events  have  revealed  to  us,  as  also  to 
herself,  as  comiJete  mistress  of  her  destiny.  But  the 
play  stands,  and  cannot  be  rewritten ;  and,  with  all  its 
imperfections  upon  it,  it  may  yet  possess  some  trifling 
value  as  an  indication  of  the  conditions  that  obtained 
before  the  war. 

ALFRED  SUTRO 

London,  July  1916 


THE  PERSONS  OF  THE  PLAY 

Bartlky  Chambers 
Laurencb  Tarqill 
hutiierford  collins 
Toby  Parking 
Balderton 
MiRTAM  Chambers 
Eve  Taugill 
Agnes  Bell 
Fanny  Collins 

The  time  is  the  present.  The  action  of  the  play  passes  within 
twenty -fimr  hours,  the  scene  being  rooms  in  the  Chambers's 
house  in  Upper  Berheley  Street,  and  the  offices  of '■^  Man- 
hood,"  a  weekly  paper,  in  Henrietta  Street. 

Note.  The  Stage  Directions  in  this  book  ore  conceived  from  the 
point  of  viow-of  the  audience,  and  nrnst,  therefore,  be  reyersed  by 
the  actors  performing  the  play. 


ACT  I 

The  dining-room  at  Baktley  Chambers's  hmise  in 
Upper  Berkeley  Street.  It  is  a  conventional, 
square-shaped  room  on  the  ground  floor  ;  windows, 
heavily  curtained  on  the  left,  f/replace  on  the  right, 
door  at  hack,  opening  direct  on  to  a  smxdlish  hall. 
The  room  is  comfortable,  pleasant  enough  in  its 
way,  with  nothing  strikingly  original  in  its  decora- 
tion or  appointments,  and  no  specially  feminine 
touches.  There  is  heavy  modern  furniture  against 
the  walls,  which  are  distempered  in  a  bluish  green  ; 
on  these  hang  two  or  three  rather  dark  pictures  of 
the  Royal  Academy  order.  On  a  sideboard  are  the 
usual  pieces  of  silver,  on  a  side-table  the  usual 
flowers — in  fact,  the  room,  while  by  no  means  un- 
attractive, is  precisely  of  the  kind  to  he  found  by 
the  hundred  in  the  houses  of  well-to-do  folk  in  the 
West  End. 

Eight  people  have  jv^t  finished  dinner,  and  are  seated 
at  an  oblong  table,  two  at  each  end,  two  at  the 
sides.  Miriam  Chambers  and  Laurence  Tar- 
gill  are  at  the  hack,  Laurence  at  Miriam's  right ; 
next  to  him  Agnes  Bell  avd  then  Rutherford 
Collins  ;  next  to  him,  and  facing  Miriam  and 
1  A 


«  FREEDOM 

Laurenck,  Evk  Taegill  and  Bartley — then 
Faiwy  Collins  and  Toby  Parning.  It  is  a 
/air -sized  table,  and  there  is  a  hit  of  a  gap  at  both 
ends;  the  people  are  all  sitting  in  little  groups, 
having  shifted  their  chairs  after  dinner. 
Bartley  Chambers  is  a  handsome,  sturdy  man  of 
forty,  with  a  frank,  open  face,  and  a  particularly 
attractive  voice  and  smile.  Laurence  Targill, 
u  ahout  the  same  age — a  long,  thinnish  man, 
rather  ugly,  but  with  a  curious,  uncouth  charm 
about  him,  arising  from  his  very  marked  per- 
sonality. His  face  is  strikingly  intellectual,  a 
trifle  dominating  and  arrogant,  perhaps,  hut  urith 
an  occasional  sincere  and  captivating  smile  and 
a  look  in  the  eye  that  are  intensely  winning. 
Rutherford  Collins  is  short,  and  inclined  to  be 
stoui.  He  is  distinctly  of  the  hon-vivant  order — 
a  clever  face,  with  a  mouth  that  is  half  sensuous 
and  half  cynical.  Toby  Parning  is  the  oldest  of 
the  party — nearer  fifty  than  forty.  He  is  a 
lawyer,  hut  shows  few  signs  of  his  profession  in 
his  face,  which  is  long  and  thoughtful,  kindly  and 
humorous.  His  black  hair  is  grey  at  the  temples  ; 
he,  aloTie  of  the  men,  wears  a  moustache  and  a 
closely  cut  beard.  Miriam  is  a  strikingly  hand- 
soTne  vjoman  of  thirty-two  or  three,  unth  a  superb 
figure.  Her  face,  in  repose,  seems  somewhat  cold 
and  passionless,  but  lights  up  curiously  when  she 
speaks,  or  becomes  interested  in  what  other  people 
are  saying,    Agnes  Bell  is  about  the  same  age, 


FREEDOM  8 

but  looks  older.  She  is  a  stately  woman,  and  very 
handsome — but  evidently  attaches  meagre  import- 
ance to  her  appearance — in  contra-distinction  to 
the  other  ladies,  who  are  charmingly  gowned,  her 
dress  is  almost  austere,  with  a  striking  absence  of 
any  attempt  at  ornament.  Fanny  Collins  t« 
pretty,  in  a  rather  common  way.  She  is  a  little 
common  herself — and,  especially  when  addressing 
her  husband,  inclined  to  be  waspish.  Eve  is  the 
youngest  of  the  party — twenty-eight  or  twenty-nine^ 
and  looking  even  less.  She  is  slight,  and  very  fair 
— meek  and  curiously  retiring.  With  a  little  more 
vivacity  and  expression  she  would  be  exquisitely 
pretty — she  has  wonderful  eyes,  large  and  lustrous 
— but  these  are  usually  veiled,  or  only  half-opened, 
and  rarely  allowed  to  convey  much  of  what  passes 
within  her.  The  men  are  ail  wearing  conven- 
tional evening  clothes ;  the  ladies,  while  distinctly 
avoiding  the  austerity  of  Agnes,  still  have  their 
dresses  cut  a  little  higher  than  is  the  prevailing 
fashion,  and  do  not  subscribe  to  the  frivolous 
eccentricities  of  the  moment. 
As  the  curtain  rises,  there  is  a  buzz  of  talk,  in  which 
all  are  joining,  each  with  his  neighbour.  The 
butler  and  two  maids  have  cleared  the  table,  leav- 
ing coffee-cups  and  wine  and  liqueur  glasses;  a 
decanter  of  port  has  been  placed  by  the  side  of 
Bartlet,  who  sends  it  round.  Rutherford  and 
Bartley  are  smoking  cigars,  Toby  a  cigarette — 
tiAUEENCB  does  not  smoke,  nor  do  any  of  the 


4  FREEDOM 

ladies.  Faknt  would  have  dearly  liked  a  cigar- 
ette, but  she  is  afraid  to  take  one,  as  none  of  the 
other  women  are  smoking.  It  has  evidently  been 
a  very  pleasant  dinner,  and  all  the  guests  have 
enjoyed  themselves,  and  are  feeling  jolly.  The 
servants  go,  and  shut  the  door.  Suddenly  Toby 
Parnino,  who  has  been  talking  eagerly  with  Fakny 
and  Miriam,  says,  *'  Let's  ask  Bartlky.  Bart- 
ley  ! "  Bartley  apologizes  to  Eve,  and  pushes 
his  chair  round  the  corner,  to  the  side  of  Fanny, 
and  speaks  across  her,  to  Toby  and  Miriam. 
Eve  moves  her  chair  a  little  nearer  to  Ruther- 
ford— he  turns  from  Agnes,  whom  he  has  been 
trying  to  convince,  and  whispers  to  her  ;  she  shakes 
her  head  doubtfully.  Suddenly  he  gets  on  his  legs. 
Though  he  has  evidently  always  acquiesced  in  the 
butler's  filling  his  glass,  he  is  perfectly  steady  and 
self-possessed. 
Rutherford.  Ladies  and  Gentlemen ! 

[There  is  a  chorus  of  disapproval  from  all, 
except  Eve  and  Agnbs,  who  are  in  the 
secret — and  they  are  doubtful.  The  rest 
all  turn  towards  Rutherford,  and  protest 
vigorously, shouti7ig  "No, no!  No  speeches! 
Sit  down ! " 
Rutherford.  [Quite  unperturbed.]  Women  and 
Men! 

[Miriam,  Toby,  Laurence  and  Bartley  main- 
tain their  protest,  crying  "We  don't  want 
any     speeches !      There    shan't    be    any 


FREEDOM  5 

speeches!  Eve  and  Agnks  look  on  and 
smile — Fanny  is  indifferent.  Miriam 
throws  a  lump  of  sugar  at  himl\ 

Rutherford.  Though  you  strike  you  shall  hear 
me !  To-day  happens  to  be  the  first  anniversary  of 
Bartley's  becoming  Editor — and  also  Proprietor — of 
that  highly  intellectual  journal  known  to  the  world 
as  Manhood! 

[The  Jive,  who  are  not  in  the  secret,  turn  t0 
each  other  in  surprise. 

Hartley.  By  Jove !     What  is  to-day  ? 

Toby.  The  25th  of  September  !     He's  right ! 

Miriam.  Still,  that's  no  reason  !  No,  Rutherford, 
no!  please! 

Bartley.  Of  course !  Sit  down,  Rutherford !  Sit 
down! 

Rutherford.  [Blandly,  as  he  takes  a  puff  at  his 
cigar.]  I  refuse. 

Laurexce.  [Laughing.]  "We  all  know  how  eloquent 
you  are  !     But  obey  your  hostess ! 

Fanny.  He  simply  can't  miss  a  chance  of 

Toby.  Down  you  go,  Rutherford  ! 

Rutherford.  [Turning  on  him.]  Silence,  Man  of 
Law !  And  be  quiet,  the  rest  of  you !  I  mean 
to 

Miriam.  Don't !     To  oblige  me !     Please  ! 

Agnes.  [Appealing  to  her.]  Miriam  dear — after  all ! 
We  ought  to  drink  Bartley's  health ! 

Miriam.  Then,  my  dears,  drink  it  in  silence  1 
Bartley [She  turns  to  him. 


6  FREEDOM 

Bartlet.  Yes,  yes— quite  right !     Laurence,  pass 
him  the  port !     Drink,  Rutherford — and  sit  down  ! 
[Laurence  offers  the  decanter — Rutherford 
waves  it  aside,  with  a  magnificent  gesture. 

Rutherford.  We  are  all  modest  folk — I  more  than 
any  [ironical  applause  round  the  table^,  and  only  a 
strong  sense  of  duty  retains  me  in  this  perpendicular 
position. 

Miriam.  [Laughing.]  At  least  get  it  over  quickly, 
Rutherford ! 

Rutherford.  I  will  be  brief  as — gratitude ;  I  will 
be  short — as  my  wife's  temper !  [Fanny  puts  her 
tongue  out  at  him.]  Ladies  and  Gentlemen !  This  is 
our  anniversary.  Twelve  months  ago,  to  a  day, 
Bartley,  our  friend  Bartley,  forswore  the  delights  of 
Workmen'!  Dwellings  and  Garden  Cities — and  joined 
us! 

All.  [Baxept  Miriam  and  Bartley,  applauding 
loudly.]  Hear,  hear ! 

Rutherford.  We,  the  rest  of  us  around  this  table, 
were  then  engaged,  as  we  had  been  for  years,  in 
educating  the  people.  We  had  at  our  head  that  dis- 
tinguished novelist  and  man  of  letters  Mr.  Laurence 
Targill 

All.  [Applauding  loudli/.]  Hear,  hear ! 

[Laurence  bows  and  waves  his  hand  to  them. 

Rutherford.  — who,  from  the  very  beginning,  had 
conducted  the  destinies  of  our  weekly  oracle.  Ladies 
and  Gentlemen,  under  Laurence's  control  that  weekly 
might  also  have  been  spelt  with  an  "  a." 


FREEDOM  7 

Agnes.  [Uagerly.]  No,  no — I  deny  that !  The 
paper  may  not  have  paid — it  didn't — but  the  work 
was  being  done,  the  foundation-stone  laid  !     It  was  ! 

Rutherford.  [Turning  to  her.]  Agnes  Bell — Doctor 
of  Science,  Bachelor  of  Arts,  and  Spinster  of  All  the 
Graces 

Agnes.  [Half  annoyed  and  half  amused.]  Look  here, 
Rutherford 

Rutherford.  [Turning  to  the  others.]  — still  has 
enough  of  the  primitive  female  in  her — to  pluck 
unripe  conclusions  from  an  unfinished  proposition. 

Toby.  [Laughing.]  Then  finish  it,  my  lad  !  Get 
on! 

Rutherford.  I  am  getting  on,  old  Toby  of 
Lincoln's  Inn  !     Heaven,  a  lawyer  rebuking  delay  ! 

Toby.  Never  mind  me  !     Vorwaerts  I 

[There  are  cries  o/"*' Yes,  yes — get  on  !"  He 
proceeds  blandly,  with  an  occasional  puff 
at  his  cigar. 

Rutherford.  Weakly  we  were,  I  repeat,  in  the 
sense  of  having  a — defective  circulation.  "We  made 
a  mighty  noise,  but  there  were  mighty  few  to  hear 
us !  Then  Bartley  came  along.  Circumstances  had 
made  Bartley  a  merchant ;  marriage  and  Miriam  had 
turned  him  into  a  philanthropist ;  but,  in  the  packing- 
room  of  Heaven,  or  wherever  they  contrived  the 
elements  of  the  Bartley  that  was  to  be,  **  Editor  "  was 
most  certainly  labelled  on  his  soul !  Our  journal 
has  always  possessed  contributors  of  extraordinary 
talent 


8  FREEDOM 

All.  [Laughing  and  applauding.]  Hear,  hear  ! 

Rutherford.  Now  it  rejoices  in  an  Editor  and 
Proprietor  who  has  made  it  pay 

Bartley.  [Beaming.]  Not  quite — but  almost !  Very 
nearly !     Yes ! 

Rdtherford.  And  that — there  is  no  other  word 
for  it — is  SUBLIME  ! 

All.  [Loudly.]  Hear,  hear  !  Hear,  hear !  Bartley, 
Bartley !  [Bartley  smiles  happily  at  them. 

Rutherford.  [After  another  puff  at  his  cigar\ 
Ladies  and  Gentlemen,  one  word  more^  and  I  have 
done.  Our  motto,  on  the  first  page  of  our  journal, 
was  "  Don't  Be  Respectable — but  Respect  Yourself," 
and  to  that  motto  we  have  clung.  "We  are  Politicians 
without  Party,  Enthusiasts  without  Fads,  Moralists 
without  Conventions.  [Applause.]  We  attack  folly 
and  superstition  without  respect  for  persons,  be  they 
princes,  priests,  prime  ministers,  professors,  or  merely 
prigs.  "We  are  also,  and  have  been  from  our  origin. 
Champions  of  the  Rights  of  "Women. 

All.  [Applauding  more  loudly  than  ever.]  Hear, 
hear ! 

Rutherford.  We  have  become — more  particularly 
under  Bartley's  guidance — Champions  of  their  Equal 
Bights. 

[ITie  applause,  especially  from  Laurence  and 
the  women,  grows  wilder  than  ever.  H* 
looks  round,  with  a  mischievous  smile. 

Rutherford.  I  repeat,  their  equal  rights.  We 
demand — Bartley  started  us  on  that,  with  Miriam 


FREEDOM  9 

perhaps  nudging  his  elbow — Absolute  Equality 
between  the  sexes.  And  why  not  ?  Water  is  for  ever 
rolling  under  bridges,  and  we  are  aware  that  the 
New  Woman  of  five  years  ago  is  as  obsolete  to-day  as 
the  primitive  motor-car  that,  as  it  crawled  along,  had 
to  be  preceded  by  a  man  with  a  red  flag. 

[Agnes  grows  restive,  shakes  her  head,  tmd 
whimpers  to  Laueence  and  Miriam. 
Btjthbeford.  The  red  flag  is  gone — we  helped  in 
its  going — as  it  is  largely  our  doing  that  woman  is 
ever  becoming  Kewer  and  Newer. 

[There  are  murmurs  of  discontent  from  AaNBS, 

Miriam,  Laurence — Agnes  crying,  "  Not 

at  all !  No !  She  doesn't ! "  Rutherford 

ignores    the   interruption,    and    continues 

more  blithely  than  ever. 

Rutherford.  We,  the  men,  follow  her  breathlessly 

— and  meekly  provide — the  thunder  for  her  lightning. 

We  have  grievances  of  our  own — as  I  speak,  my  linen 

collar  chafes  and  irritates  me — but  it  is  safe  to  presume 

that,  generations  hence,  men  will  still   be  wearing 

linen  collars — though  what  women  will  wear  Heaven 

only  knows — and  we  shall  have  helped  them  to  wear 

it !     And  with  that,  Ladies  and  Gentlemen,  I  invite 

you  to  drink  the  health  of  Bartley  Chambers — and 

also  ask  Mr.  Parning  to  pass  the  port. 

[He  sits,  cheerfully,  amidst  signs  of  general 
disapproval.     Agnes,    Fanny,   and  Lau- 
rence all  jump  up  together. 
Agnes.  I  want  to 


10  FREEDOM 

Laurkncb.  I  can't  allow 

Fanny.  I'd  just  like 

[These  remarks  are  simultaneous.     The  three 
stop  and  look  at  each  other. 

Miriam.  [Laughing^  Good  people  ! 

Rutherford.  [FFi^A  a  chuckle,  as  he  reaches  for  the 
decanter^  Dear  me  !     Have  I  said  anything ? 

Fanny.  [Stingingly.^  You  know  very  well  that 
you've  been 

Rutherford.  "Well,  they  can't  all  speak  at  once ! 
I  vote  for  Agnes  first. 

Miriam.  No,  no ;  we've  had  enough  !  [She  appeals 
to  Agnes.]  It's  only  Rutherford's  little  way  ! 

AoNES.  [Who  has  been  whispering  to  Laurence,  who 
nods,  and  sits  doion.]  I  really  would  like— just  one 
word. 

Rutherford.  Let  her,  dear  hostess!  And  the 
others  after !  why  not  I  [ffe  bangs  the  table.]  Silence 
for  Agnes !  [Re  Jills  his  glass. 

Fanny.  [As  she  sits,  with  a  significant  glance  at  the 
decanter.]     I  say,  Rutherford 

Rutherford.  [Blandly.]  Admirable  wine,  dear — 
admirable.  [He  shouts.]  Agnes! 

Agnes.    [Nervously.]    Ladies  and  Gentlemen — — 
[Toby  whispers  to  Miriam. 

Rutherford.  [Banging  the  table,  and  assuming  the 
tone  of  a  toastm,aster.]  Pray,  silence  for  Agnes  Bell, 
Doctor  of  Science  and  Bachelor  of  Arts  ! 

Agnes.  [Turning  to  him.]  It's  you  whom  I  want  to 
be  silent,  Rutherford. 


FREEDOM  11 

EuTHERFOBD,  As  the  grave  ! 

[He  tosses  off  his  glass. 

Fanny.  [To  Toby.]  He's  drinking  too  much. 

Rutherford.  Sh,  sh ! 

Agnes.  I  hate  getting  up  and  talking — not  that  I 
mean  I  do,  as  a  general  rule  !  Heaven  knows  I've 
done  enough  of  it !  But  Rutherford  has  said  things 
— that  I  don't  like. 

Rutherford.  Woe  is  me ! 

Agnes.  He  means  well,  of  course — and,  as  Miriam 
says,  I  know  it's  only  his  way — and,  in  common  with 
every  woman,  I'm  gratefnl  to  him  for  the  articles  he 
writes,  and  has  written 

Rutherford.  Hear,  hear ! 

Agnes.  And  Bartley  and  Miriam  know  how  grate- 
ful I  am  to  them.  But  I  hate  the  idea  that,  just 
to-night,  when  we're  drinking  to  Bartley,  thanking 
Bartley — anything  should  be  said  that — that — oh,  I 
mean,  that  throws  back  to  the  old  style  of  talk  about 
men  and  women.  Because  that's  odious  to  me — and 
is,  I'm  sure,  to  us  all. 

All.  [Loudly,  except  Rutherford.]  Hear,  hear  ! 

Rutherford.  [Filling  his  glass.]  When  Adam 
delved,  and  Eva  span 

Laurence.  [Roughly.]  Shut  up,  Rutherford!  Let 
Agnes  have  her  say  1 

Agnes.  [JFi^A  intense  earnestness.]  I  mean — this 
thing  that  we  are  fighting  for  is  holy — yes,  it  is — 
and  I  don't  like  even  the  suspicion  of  fun  being  made 
of  it.     I  don't  like  this  talk  of  New  Women,  and  so 


IS  IHEEDOM 

oa.  We're  not  new  women — we're  not  f reeks,  or 
eooentrics — we  ask  nothing  abnormal,  <»■  extreme. 
We  want  to  get  nearer  to— to — the  divine— yes, 
raallj,  the  divine— Fm  not  afraid  to  say  it.  So,  even 
at  «  convivial  gathering  like  thle— don't  let's  make 
fan.  Not  have  our  tongae  in  onr  cheek,  even  when 
wi^  dining  together.  I  didn't  like  what  Rnthof  ord 
said — about  the  red  flag  and  the  linen  collar.  The 
woman  of  the  f otore,  whom  we  are  helping  to  form, 
will  be  at  least  aa  modest  and  virtooos  as  the  woman 
of  to-day — and  her  very  freedom,  and  the  nobility 
that  comes  from  that  freedom,  will  prevent  her  from 
doing  things  tiiat  she  doet  to-day — things  tiiat  no  <Hie 
thinks  anything  of,  but  to  as  seem  degrading  and 
shotting.  We  plead  in  oar  paper  that  motherhood 
shall  be  open  to  all  women — that  no  shame  shall 
attach  to  the  child  bom  oat  of  wedlock— or  the  mother 
who  bears  it.  Is  that  dreadfol — is  it  abnormal — to 
the  god  who  aits  on  the  mountain?  /  am  not 
marred,  as  you  know — and  have  a  child,  as  you 
know — and  yoa  none  of  yoa  think  the  worse  of  me 
for  it,  or  regard  me  as  depraved,  orimmoral— for  t/ou 
know,  and  I  know,  and  God  knows,  that  I  am  none 
of  these  things — but  a  woman  who  craved  for  a  child 
— and  ooold  meet  no  man  whom  she  loved  enough  to 
give  her  whole  life  to  him.  And  I  plead,  and  our 
paper  pleads,  for  the  thoasands  of  women  in  like  case 
to  mine— women  who  have  not  had  the  courage  thati 
have  had — women  who  in  dark  places  and  sheltered 
comers  wring  their  hands  and  lament  over  a  stuoted 


FREEDOM  18 

and  crippled  existence.  For  generations,  for  hundreds 
of  years,  men  have  sniggered  at  women  when  they 
even  spoke  of  these  things.  Tou  don't — I  know,  even 
Rutherford  doesn't — and  it  is  because  our  paper  is  so 
proudly  above  the  sneer  and  the  jibe  that  it  has 
become  such  a  mighty  engine  for  good — and  the 
hope  and  inspiration  of  every  lofty-minded  woman 
throughout  the  land.  And  it  is  for  this  that  I  am 
so  grateful  to  these  dear  people — to  Bartley  and 
Miriam — and  thank  them  from  the  depths  of  my 
heart.  And  I  thank  you  for  letting  me  say  these 
things. 

[She  sits  quickly,  amidst  great  applaiLse  from 

them  all,  including  Buthebfobd.   Miriam 

hends  across,  and  pats  Aqnks  on  the  hand. 

Baktley  rises,  and  goes  to  her. 

Rutherford.    \Sente7Ui0usly,    and    the    lea^t     bit 

muzzily.]  Very  good  speech — very.     But  the  honoiu*- 

able  lady  has  misunderstood  me.     I  only 

Babtley.  You've  had  your  turn,  Rutherford  ! 

[He  dratJcs  a  chair  up  from  the  wall,  and  talks 
eagerly  to  Agnes.     Rutherford  turns  to 
Eve,  amd  begins  to  explain  to  her, 
Laurence.  Bravo,  Agnes !  Bravo ! 
Rutherford.  Get  up,  my  lad — get  up ! 
Laurence.  [Ignorirtg  him.'\  Bravo,  I  say !  And  let 
Rutherford  and  his  linen  collar  go  to  blazes ! 

Rutherford.  [Shooting  out  his  shirt-cujfs,  and 
looking  at  them  regretfully.']  If  that's  the  name  of — a 
new  laundry — ^we  might  try  it,  Fanny. 


14  FREEDOM 

Laurence.  I  don't  know  why  he  has  sprung  this 
claptrap  upon  us — but  I'm  glad  of  it — because  it 
gave  us  Agnes's  speech.  And  I'm  with  you, 
Agnes,  in  every  word  you've  said !  I'd  have  no 
barriers — I'd  throw  open  every  door!  Husbands 
and  wives — all  right — but,  first  of  all,  men  and 
women ! 

Rutherford.  [With  a  snigger.]  What  does  Eve 
think  of  that  ? 

[Thei/  all  look  at  Eve,  who  with  bent  head 
has  been  scribbling  on  the  table-doth.  She 
glances  up,  and  smiles. 

Laurence.  [  Who  has  also  throvm  a  quick  look  at  her, 
going  on  as  bree»ily  as  ever.]  Eve  thinks  as  I  do — I 
speak  for  her  as  I  do  for  myself. 

Rutherford.  [Enthusiastically.]  Hear,  hear ! 

Laurence.  And  I'm  proud — I'm  sure  Bartley  is — 
of  the  way  Agnes  spoke  of  the  paper.  That's  what 
we  want  it  to  be !  And  we  owe  it  all  to  Bartley. 
We'd  been  muddling  away  at  social  schemes — it  was 
he  who  came  along,  and  said,  "  Women  first !  "  [He 
turns  to  Bartley.]  Didn't  you  ? 

Bartley.  Yes,  yes — I  did — I  thought 

Toby.  [Laughing.]  And  Laurence  straightway  took 
the  bit  between  his  teeth,  and  started  bolting  down- 
hill! 

Laurence.  [Laughing,  too.]  All  right,  old  Dryas- 
dust !  Perhaps  I  did  want  to  go  a  little  too  far.  But 
he  keeps  a  tight  rein  on  our  necks 

Toby.  You  need  it ! 


FREEDOM  15 

Lauebncb,  [Gaily.]  I  daresay  I  do!  And  no 
doubt  we're  the  better  for  it — our  circulation  proves 
that !  It's  quite  true  I  would  have  gone  further  than 
he  does — fact  is,  he's  a  law-abiding  citizen,  and  I — 
ain't! 

Rutherford,  No.  Last  year's  Romantic  Ruffian. 
Shop-soiled.     Cheap. 

Laurence.  [Laughing.]  Can't  any  one  stop  old 
Rutherford  ?  And — as  we  are  drinking  Bartley's 
health — don't  let's  forget  that — just  one  personal 
word  !  He  took  over  my  paper,  with  its  debts — freed 
me,  I  am  proud  to  say  it  and  acknowledge  it — from 
the  load  of  financial  embarrassment  that  was  crippling 
me — didn't  want  to  be  editor,  I  had  to  force  it  on  him, 
realizing,  very  quickly,  that  he  was  a  far  better  man 
for  the  job  than  1 1  And  we  all  know  what  an  editor 
he  has  been  !  And  the  sort  of  fellow  he  is  !  Never 
a  truer  friend  or  a  kinder  heart !  The  best  of  us  all 
— and  we're  proud  of  him — and  love  him !  Long  live 
Bartley ! 

[He  rises  and  waves  his  glass.  The  others 
are  following,  with  shouts  of  applause, 
Rutherford  pushes  them  back. 

Rutherford.  Wait — wait — not  ready  yet — got  to 
hear  Fanny. 

Miriam,  Nonsense,  Rutherford.  I'm  sure  she 
doesn't 

Rutherford.  [Interrupting  her.]  Throw  open 
every  door,  he  said  !  Well — Fanny's  been  knocking  I 
Can't  have   Fanny  knocking,   and  door  not    open ! 


16  FREEDOM 

She  iDcmt*  to  speak !  [E4  shouts  and  hangs  the  tabU^ 
Fanny ! 

Fanny.  [Snapping  at  Attn.]  I  donH  want  to.  Though 
it's  quite  true  I  did.  But  only  to  explain  to  the 
others  that  it  was  just  your  irritating  way — that  I 
know  so  well 

RuTHEBFOBD.  [Thoroughly  enjoying  himself,  and 
affecting  the  deepest  concern,^  Oh,  my  darling — can  it 
be 

Fannt.  [More  amd  more  irritahly.]  It's  what  he 
calls  his  sense  of  humour — and  when  that  gets  mixed 
up  with  port,  he's  simply  unbearable. 

MiBUM.  [Mildly."]  Dear  Mrs.  Collins 

RuTHERFOBD.  [Stopping  Miriam,  as  he  rolls  delight- 
edly in  his  chair,  and  goes  on  chaffing  Fanny.]  Angel 
child — it's  Bartley's  health  we're  drinking — and  not 
mine ! 

Fanny.  [Completely  ignoring  him.]  And  he's  just 
in  the  mood — when  his  one  desire  is — to  annoy 
every  one. 

RuTHBBFOED.  May  I  remind — my  admirable 
wife 

Fannt.  [Losing  all  control,  in  her  vexation.]  I'm 
not  your  wife. 

[There  is  general  exclamation.  Mibiam  and 
AoNES  cry  '•  Oh ! "  and  Bartley  and 
Laurence  stare.  Toby  shrugs  his  shoulders 
wnd  tries  to  intervene,  dears  his  throat  pre- 
paratorily. Fanny  gives  a  look  round  th« 
table,  and  goes  on  rather  contritely. 


FREEDOM  17 

Fanny.  I  don't  know,  for  the  life  of  mw  why  I 
blurted  that  out  just  now.  Shocked  you  a  bit,  I  see. 
[2%e  ladies  protest,  somewhat  politely ,  except  Eve, 
who  takes  no  notice.]  And  I'm  rather  sorry  I  said  it. 
But  you'd  have  had  to  know  some  time.  Though  of 
course  I  don't  often  have  this  privilege  of  meeting 
you.  And  you  mustn't  think  /  haven't  wanted — to 
get  married. 

[She  stops  abruptly,  looks  at  the  table-doth,  and 
plays  with  her  cup  and  saucer.  There  is  a 
moment's  rather  awkward  silence.  Ruther- 
FOBD  remains  completely  unconcerned,  and 
perfectly  happy.  Toby  throws  himsdfinto 
the  breach. 

Toby.  Since  it's  Bartley's  health  we're  drinking,  I 
ought  to  put  in  a  word.  Because  I've  known  him 
longer  than  any  of  you — even  Miriam  !  We  were  at 
school  together — and  at  Oxford  together — and  I  can 
tell  you,  he  was  no  end  of  a  swell. 

Bartley.  [Laughing.]  Oh,  wasn't  I  just !  Except 
in  exams.     The  less  said  of  them  the  better  I 

Toby.  It  was  I  drew  up  his  articles  of  partnership, 
when  his  father  took  him  in,  and  he  became  a  Merchant 
Prince.  It  was  I  who  was  best  man  at  his  wedding 
— and  oh,  Miriam,  do  you  remember  the  fuss  he 
made  ?     Did  so  want  it  all  to  be  swagger  ? 

Hartley.  Ha,  ha,  I  did !  St.  George's,  Hanover 
Square — that  was  my  idea  !  But  not  yours,  Miriam 
—eh? 

Miriam.  No.     /  wanted — a  third-class  elopement ! 


18  FREEDOM 

Toby.  We  compromised  with  the  registry-of&ce  in 
the  Pancras  Koad.  But  the  temper  he  was  in ! 
Because  he  has  a  temper,  old  Bartley !  Ladies  and 
Gentlemen — this  may  be  a  rerelation  to  you — but  he 
doesn't  show  it  often — does  he,  Miriam  ? 
Miriam.  No.  Hardly  ever.  Never  to  me  1 
Toby.  A  soft  heart  goes  with  it — a  kind  of  combina- 
tion, he  is,  of  Mary's  lamb  and  a  bull  in  a  china-shop  1 
And  always,  through  everything,  the  best  and 
straightest  fellow  that  walks  this  earth.  Let's  drink 
to  him.     Bartley  1 

[He  has  scarcely  finished  before  Rutherford 
•^■on  whom  the  wine  is  beginning  to  tell — he 
has  been  helping  himself  freely — shouts 
"No,  no— not  yetl  Eve!"  Tk&re  it 
protest  all  round. 

EvB.  [Startled  and  shTnnking.]  No,  no ! 
Miriam.  [Vexed.]  This  really  won't  do ! 
Fanny.    [With    a    shrug.]    I  told   you — he's  im- 
possible. 

Laurence.  [Angrily.]  Rutherford,  leave  her  alone ! 

[These  remarks  are  simultaneous ;  they  have 
no  effect  on  Rutherford,  who  goes  on 
bellowing  '•  Eve  1  Eve !  Eve ! "  at  the  top  of 
his  voice, 

Fanny.    [Shouting  at  him.]    You're  becoming  an 
absolute  nuisance ! 

Miriam.  Bartley,  you  really  must  stop  this. 
Bartlky.  Rutherford,  my  dear  fellow 


FREEDOM  19 

Latjiience.  You  know  perfectly  well  she  never 

[These  remarks  are  again  simulta/neoits — hut 
they  have  not  the  slightest  effect  on  Ruther- 
ford, who  goes  on,  in  a  kind  of  sing-song^ 
yelling  "  Eve,  Eve,  Silence  for  Eve ! " 

Agnes.  [Aa'oss  his  back,  to  Eve.]  Say  one  word, 
dear,  to  keep  him  qxiiet  1 
Rutherford,  Eve! 

Laurence.  [Really  arigry.]  You  donkey ! 
Rutherford.  Eve !  Eve !  Silence  for  Eve ! 
Agnes.  [To  Eve.]  Anything,  dear.     Just  to  stop 
him ! 

Eve.  [Turning  to  them,  very  slowly  and  timidly], 
Yery  well — if  I  must  ...  I  drink  to  Bartley  too. 
I  think  as  you  all  do  about  him. 

Rutherford.  [Maliciously.]  And  freedom,  Eve  I 
We've  heard  Laurence  on  Freedom !  Give  us  your 
ideas ! 

Eve.  [Very  startled,  as  she  looks  at  him.]  I  don't 
think  my  ideas — I  mean — T — I — 

[She  breaks  down,  and  hursts  into  tears.  There 
is  general  exclamation,  expressive  of  sym- 
pathy vrith  her,  and  indignation  with 
Rutherford,  who  merely  wags  his  head, 
and  fills  himself  another  glass.  Agnes 
jumps  up  and  goes  to  Eve  —  to  does 
Laurence. 

Miriam.  Poor  little  Eve  I     What  a  shame ! 
Toby.  Too  bad  of  Rutherford ! 


20  FREEDOM 

Bartley.  [Very   concerned,^    Really,    really,    I'm 
frightfully  sorry ! 

Fanny.  That's  Rutherford  all  over — he  likes 

[These  remarks  are  simultaneous.  Ruther- 
ford pays  no  heed  to  them,  but  sips  his 
port,  chuckling  blithely  to  himself.  Lau- 
rence has  reached  Eve's  side — he  puts  his 
a/rms  round  her,  sits  on  the  back  of  her 
chair,  and  tries  to  comfort  her.  She  dries 
her  eyes,  aud  quickly  recovers  herself  shyly 
gmiling  apologies.  Agnes  goes  back  to  her 
seat. 
Laurence.  There,  there,  darling,  don't  cry.  It  was 
a  very  great  shame.     Poor  little  sweetheart ! 

Miriam.  Rutherford,  I'm  really  vexed  with  you. 
I  am. 

Rutherford.  Temper  the  wind,  hostess !    Temper 
the  wind ! 

Miriam.  "We  all  spoil  him,  that's  the  truth. 
Rutherford.  And   how  about   Hartley's  health? 
Come  along,  all  of  you !     UP ! 

Miriam.  [Rising,  as  do  all  the  others.]  To  Bartley ! 
And  I  drink  to  him — and  thank  him  too ! 

[They  all  hold  up  their  glasses — toith  shouts  oj 
"Bartley,  Bartley!"  Laurence  has 
hastened  back  to  his  place,  Eve  being  now 
perfectly  tranquil  again,  to  get  his  glass — 
he  stands  beside  Miriam.  Rutherford 
strikes  up  "  For  He's  a  Jolly  Good  Fellow  " 
— they  aU  join  in.     When  they  get  to  the 


FREEDOM  81 

"  Hip,     Hip,     Hip,      Hurrah  I "     stage, 

Rutherford  shouts,       "And    one     for 

Miriam !  Hip,  hip,  hurrah  !    And  one  for 

Bartley  junior,  upstairs !    Hurrah !  And 

one  for  the  baby,  whatever  its  name  is ! 

Hurrah  !  And  now — silence  for  Bartley ! " 

The  cheers  have  been   heartily  given,  and 

glasses  drained — thei/  all  sit.      Bartley 

rises.     He  is  deeply  moved,  a/nd  pauses  for 

an  instant  before  speaking.    They  all  shout, 

a/nd  applaud  him. 

Bartley.    My    dear    friends — I — really — scarcely 

know  what  to  say.     I'm  so  proud  to  be  here  with 

you — to  have  people  like  you — around  me.     I'm  so 

proud  of  you  all.     It's  a  wonderful  thing  for  a  man 

like  myself  to  be  controlling — no,  no,  not  controlling, 

but  guiding — a  paper  like  ours.     Miriam,  of  course, 

controls  and  guides  me.     I  am  what  she  has  made 

me. 

Miriam.  No,  no. 

Bartley.  [Looking  fondly  at  her.]  I  say,  yes,  yes. 
I  went  out  of  the  City  because  she  wanted  me  to— 
I  came  into  this  paper  because  she  wanted  me  to. 
We've  been  married  seven  years — and  I've  always 
done  what  she  wanted,  and  always  shall.  Before  I 
married,  I  suppose  I  was  just  like  the  other  fellows 
with  lots  of  money.  And  a  bit  of  a  snob,  too,  I  dare 
say.  My  ideal  woman  was  the  smart  girl  who  rode 
to  hounds,  and  danced,  and  flirted,  and  was  satisfied 
with  everything,  and  didn't  care  a  button  for  any- 


««  FREEDOM 

thing  outside.  But  I  had  the  luck  to  many  Miriam. 
And  she  has  taught  me  what  women  are,  and  are 
capable  of.  [Miriam  makes  a  gesture. 

Bartley.  [N'odding.]  Yes,  yes,  my  dear,  I  know. 
That's  enough  about  that,  [ffe  turns  to  the  others.l 
You  all  know  !  Well,  this  paper  of  ours.  I  took  my 
dear  friend  Laurence's  place — he  made  me — and,  aa 
he  says,  I  put  the  women's  movement  in  the  front. 
Because,  to  me — to  Miriam  and  me — that  is  the 
movement — bigger  than  the  others,  bound  up  with 
the  others,  helping  the  others !  Laurence — our  fiery, 
untamed  Laurence — was  with  us  at  once — and,  as 
you  know,  chafes,  sometimes,  at  my  holding  him 
back.  But  then,  you  see,  the  public — the  public's 
like  me — ^the  public  go  slow  1  And  they  are  beginning 
to  understand  that  what  we're  striving  for  is  the— • 
the— the  beautiful,  and  not  the  ugly.  That's  all. 
Nothing  nasty  about  us — about  our  work,  about  our 
paper.  As  Agnes  says,  freer  men  and  women,  and 
therefore  nobler.  Nobler,  that's  all — nobler!  Our 
aim,  our  ideal — and  we're  getting  there.  Thanks  to 
you — to  you  all — and  to  Miriam  !  Yes — I  must  say 
it — especially  to  Miriam  !  And  so— so — God  bless 
you — and  may  we  celebrate  many  more  anniversaries 
together. 

\He  sits,  amid  great  applause,  Ruthbrford 
being  specially  enthusiastic.  Agnes,  Toby, 
Fannt,  Laurence,  all  say  nice  things  to 
Bartley.  Miriam  lets  her  hand  rest  for 
a  moment  on  his. 


FREEDOM  2S 

Agnes.  Thank  you,  Bartley  I  ( 

Fanny.  A  great  little  speech  I 
Toby.  Good  man,  Bartley  ! 
Laurence.  Dear  old  friend  ! 

\The8e  remarks  a/re  simultaneoua, 
EuTHKEFORD.  [Sprawling,]  A— --jolly — good — ^speech. 
Successful  evening.     Yery. 

Miriam.  [Rising.]  Well — now  we  can  go  upstairs. 
[They  all  rise,  except  Rutherford,  who  re- 
mains  seated,  staring  at  his  glass. 
Miriam.  Bartley,  don't  be  long. 

[Laurence  has  opened  the  door.     Agnes  and 
Eve  go.     Fanny,  at  the  door,  turns  rotcnd. 
Fanny.  And  please  don't  let  Rutherford  drink  any 
more  !     Look  at  him  ! 

Rutherford.  [Rising  slowly  to  his  feet.]  I  am — 
proudly  conscious — of  being — worthy  of — inspection. 
Fanny.  [Tossing  her  head.]  Oh,  yes.    /  know. 
Rutherford.  Crypto— conchoid — syphonostomata. 
Fanny.  [With  a  contemptuous  shrug.]  Pooh  I 

[She  goes,  followed  by  Miriam.  Laurence 
closes  the  door.  They  all  sit — Toby  in  his  old 
place,  Bartley  next  to  him,  then  Ruther- 
ford and  Laurence.  Rutherford  has 
undoubtedly  drunk  too  much  —  but  he 
manifests  this  only  by  an  excessive  slow- 
ness of  speech  and  portentous  solemnity  of 
manner. 
Toby,  [Merrily,  to  Rutherford.]  "Well,  my  boy, 
you've  been  having  a  fine  fling  to-night  1 


S4  FREEDOM 

RuTHKRFORD.  [As  he  fills  his  glass.]  Life— and  soul 
— of  the  party. 

Laurencb.  [As  he  sits.]  You  will  have  a  head  to- 
morrow ! 

Rutherford.  [Holdiiig  up  his  glass!]  I  like  — 
having  a  head — to-morrow.  Better  to  have  a — head 
— to-morrow — than  a — turnip — to-night.  [He  lifts  up 
his  glass  and  hows  solemnly  to  the  others.]  To  the — 
turnips,  [ffe  drinks.] 

[They  laugh — ToBy  turns  to  Bartlet. 

Toby.  Quaint,  you  know — when  I  think  of  the  old 
days — with  your  four-in-hands  and  your  supper- 
parties — and  here  you  are,  running  this  paper ! 

Rutherford.  [As  he  looks  around.]  What  I  ask 
myself  sometimes — especially  when  I'm  not — strictly 
sober — is,  what  are  we  doing  it  for  ?     Eh  ? 

Toby.  [Laughing.]  That's  only  because  you're  not 
strictly  sober,  Rutherford ! 

Rutherford.  [Impressively,  as  he  leans  forward.] 
Let  me  tell  you — I've  very  great  respect — for  myself 
— when  I'm  in — this  condition. 

[He  nods  his  head  solemnly,  several  times. 

Laurence.  [Shortly.]  Well,  we  haven't.  Far  from  it. 

Rutherford.  That's  because  you — don't  know.  I 
— understand  more.  DiflFerent  man.  Brain's  clear 
— frightfully  clear.  Paren — thetically,  I've  more 
brain — ^than  all  the  rest  of  you — put  together. 

Laurence.  [Drily.]  You're  a  wonderful  person,  of 
course.  [He  leans  across  ]  Bartley 

Rutherford.  [Interrupting  him  ruthlessly.]  Lau- 


FREEDOM  25 

rence  hasn't — mere  jumble — philosophy  and  fiction. 
When  you  read  his — novels — ^you  skip  the — story 
part — and  when  you  get  to  the — philosophy  part,  you 
— yawn  and  go  to — sleep. 

Bartley.  [Vexed.]  Look  here,  Rutherford,  don't 
say  such  things.     They're  silly. 

Laurence.  [Good-humouredly.]  Don't  mind  him. 
Thanks,  Rutherford,  my  son ! 

Rutherford.  Bartley  doesn't  know — how  should 
he?  Fine  editor — yes.  Has  a  nose.  Always  give 
me  an  editor — with  a  nose. 

Bartley.  [Laughing.]  Well,  he's  turning  it  up  at 
you  now ! 

Rutherford,  But  no  brain,  Bartley,  my  dear — all 
heart.  Beautiful,  streaky  heart.  Toby  Parning 
hasn't  a — brain — but  then  he's  a — lawyer — and  never 
— misses  it. 

Toby.  [Merrily,  as  he  shakes  his  head  at  him.]  Oh, 
you  ridiculous  old  ass ! 

Rutherford.  Good  man,  Toby — with  you  there — 
but  dry  as  a — haddock.  Makes  me  thirsty  to  look  at 
him. 

[He  gropes  for  the    decanter — Toby   reaches 
forward  and  takes  it  away. 

Toby.  Well,  at  least,  you  shan't  drink  any  more  I 
And  now  shut  up,  Rutherford,  like  a  good  chap ! 
Bartley,  I  wanted  a  word  with  you  about 

Rutherford.  [Solemnly.]  Old  friends — you'd  much 
better — listen  to — me.  Look  here,  we — started  thia 
— paper — years  ago — didn't  we  ?     Title,  Manhood — 


26  FREEDOM 

we've  stuck  to — that.  Twelve  of  us — weren't  there 
—  all  men?  Three  of  us  —  left — of  the  —  twelve 
Where  are  the — others  ? 

Laurence.  [Shortly.]  Never  mind  the  others. 

Rutherford.  But  I — do  mind — We  wanted — de- 
cent homes — for  the  workers.  Living  wage.  Reform 
of  the  —  Poor- Law.  And  such  like.  The  public 
didn't  care  a — damn.  Peculiarity  of  the^public — it 
never  does  care  a  damn — for  things  that — matter. 
Then  we  took  up  the — women — and  we're — booming 
— now. 

Laurence.  [Eagerly.]  We  always,  and  from  the 
very  beginning,  "  took  up  "  the  women,  as  you  call  it. 

Rutherford.  [Scornfully.]  Oh,  yes  —  the  —  vote. 
But  the — public — didn't  care — and  the — women — 
didn't  care. 

[Th^e  are  indignant  protests  from  the  three' 
others. 

Laurence.  That's  not  true  1 

Bartley.  Of  course  it  isn't  I 

Toby.  They  did — and  they  do ! 

Laurence.  Not  care!  Haven't  we  rallied  round 
us  all  the  brightest  intellects  in  England  ? 

Rutherford.  All  the — brightest  intellects — in 
England — would  go  into  a — cabmen's  shelter — and 
there'd  still  be  room  for — you.  [His  voice  becomes 
almost  dirge-like  in  its  mournfulness,]  No — it's  the— 
Sex  business.  That  has — done  it.  All  the — women 
— buy  us — now. 


FREEDOM  27 

Bartlby.  [Wrinkling  his  brow.]  What  d'you  mean 
by  the  Sex  business  ? 

Rutherford.  Freer — Divorce — Claim  to  Mater- 
nity— Equal  Rights — and  so  on. 

Laurence.  [Passionately.]  And  aren't  these  things 
right  ?    Don't  you  believe  in  them  ? 

Rutherford.  Yes — when  I'm  sober.  Don't — when 
I'm  drunk.  And  the  question  is,  ought  I  to  lend  my 
—quite  extraordinary  gifts 

Laurence.  [Roughly,  as  he  clutches  the  decanter, 
and  passes  it  to  Rutherford.]  Here,  my  lad,  drink 
some  more.     You'll  be  more  extraordinary  still. 

Bartley.  [Protesting.]  No,  no,  you  shouldn't 

Laurence,  Oh,  it  passes  oflf  very  quickly  with  him. 
Upstairs,  in  the  drawing-room,  he  won't  turn  a  hair. 
I  know  him. 

Rutherford.  [Unsteadily  JUling  his  glass.]  Isn't 
that — just — what  we're  doing  ?  Giving  'em  what 
they  want  ?  But  is  it  good  for  them  ?  I  don't  know. 
Is  it  good  for  me  ?  [He  holds  up  his  glass.]  I'm  not 
sure.  [Se  drinks  slowly,  saying  between  gulps] 
I'm — not — sure. 

Toby.  [Laughing.]  Well,  don't  worry  about  it. 
You'll  be  quite  sure  to-morrow. 

Bartley.  [Earnestly.]  And  I'll  tell  you  this, 
Rutherford — just  this — you're  wrong  in  what  you've 
been  saying — and,  drunk  or  sober,  I  can't  let  you  say 
it.  I'm  giving  my  life  to  this  movement — I  believe 
in  it,  with  my  whole  soul. 

Rutherford.  Miriam  does. 


28  FREEDOM 

Baetley.  [I^odding.]  That's  quite  right ;  I  wouldn't 
have,  but  for  her.  I  used  to  be  like  the  other  men 
at  the  Club — thought  it  a  joke  that  women  should 
want  things.  I  don't  now.  Oh,  of  course  there  are 
other  abuses — but  it's  not  fair  to  say  that  we  neglect 
them.  We  don't.  Only,  the  women  come  first.  And, 
working  hand  in  hand  as  we're  doing,  I  tell  you  we 
shall  go  far. 

Rutherford.  At  present — we've  got  to — Agnes — 
having  a  baby  from — the  Stores. 

[Toby  cct/n't  help  laughing,  hut  Bartley  and 
Laurence  are  really  angry  and  indignant. 

Bartley.  None  of  that,  Rutherford  !  That's  beastly 
— it's  low  I 

Laurence.  Good  Heavens,  yes !  Have  you  ever, 
in  all  your  life,  come  across  a  nobler  creature  than 
Agnes? 

Rutherford.  [Blandly.]  No  one's  a — denigin'  of 
it,  Sairey. 

Bartley.  And — Rutherford — this  comes  rather  ill 
from  you.  Yes,  really  it  does.  We  were  all  of  us,  I 
think,  a  little  distressed  when  we  heard  you  weren't 
married  to  Fanny. 

Rutherford.  [Staring.]  Were  you,  though  ? 

Toby.  [Trying  to  intervene.]  Oh,  I  say,  Bartley 

Bartley.  [Nodding  across  to  him.]  Yes,  yes,  I  know. 
But  I  think  he  ought  to  be  told.  It  really's  not  fair 
on  her. 

Laurence.  No,  it  isn't.  Say  what  one  pleases  of 
marriage,  this  is  precisely  a  case 


FREEDOM  29 

Rutherford.  [Wagging  his  head.]  Is  it,  though? 
Lawks  !  who'd  have  thought  it ! 

Bartley.  We  want  to  give  women  freedom — but 
not  to  deprive  them  of  their — contract. 

Toby.  I  say,  Bartley,  old  chap — really — ^you 
needn't,  just  now.     And,  in  any  event — after  all 

Bartley.  [Eamestlyj  to  Toby,  across  the  table.] 
She's  the  mother  of  his  child.  She  has  given  him 
the  best  years  of  her  life. 

Toby.  But  scarcely  of  his  class,  you  know.  You 
saw  that  to-night.     One  must  consider  that. 

Laurence.  [Indignantly.]  Class,  Toby  !     Class  I 

Bartley.  Yes — I'm  a  little  surprised.  What  has 
that  to  do  with  it  ? 

Toby.  [Shrugging  his  shoulders.]  Oh,  my  dear 
fellow 

Laurence.  She's  entitled  to  be  his  wife !  That's 
her  right ! 

Rutherford.  [Looking  in  amazement  from  one  to 
the  ot?ier.]  My  stars — and  stripes  !  She  calls  herself 
my  wife — /  call  her — my  wife.     What's  the  odds  ? 

Bartley.  The  odds  are,  simply,  that  you  could,  at 
any  moment  you  chose,  just  send  her  away. 

Laurence.  And  that's  monstrous — yes,  it  is  mon- 
strous ! 

Bartley.  So  I  say  to  you,  Rutherford — you  know 
how  fond  we  are  of  you — just  think  it  over — that's 
all.    Now  let's  go  upstairs. 

[He  rises,  as  do  the  others,  except  Rutherford,  who 
sits  there,  drumming  his  fingers  on  the  table. 


80  FREEDOM 

RuTHEEFORD.  I  wonH  think  it  over.     It's  absurd. 

Baetley.  Rutherford 

Rutherford.  Prepos — pos — posterous. 
Laueence.  [Clapping  him  roughly  on  the  shoulder i\ 
Oome  on — get  up. 

[Baetley  and  Toby  are  standing  hy  the  door, 
Toby  evidently  remonstrating toithBARTLKT. 
RuTHEEFORD.  [Waving  Laueence  away.]  I  write 
— women's  articles — when  I'm  sober — and  believe  in 
'em,  right  enough.  But  I'm  a — bit  of  a  man,  too. 
And  Fanny's  welcome — to  all  I  have — as  long  as — 
she  goes — on  the  square. 

[ffe  gets  unsteadily  on  to  his  legs. 
Laurence.  [Turning    angrily    on    himi]    On   the 
square  !    And  who's  to  be  the  judge  of  that  ?    You  ? 
You're  judge  and  jury  ! 

RuTHEEFOED.  [Catching  hold  of  him,  with  a  dru/nken 
snigger.]  That's  all  ri',  old  chap.  Suppose  Fanny 
played  me  the  game — that  you  and  Miriam — are 
playing  on  old  Bartley  ? 

Baetley.  [Turning,  in  the  midst  of  his  talk  with 
Toby.]  Eh? 

Laueence.  [Furiously,  as  hs  shakes  Rutheefoed.] 
You  drunken  fool ! 

Baetley.  [Vaguely,  as  he  takes  a  step  forward.] 
What  did  he  say  ? 

[Eve  has  come  in — the  door  had  opened  imme- 
diately after  Rutheefoed's  last  sentence. 
She  com^  forward — the  men  all  stop,  and 


FREEDOM  81 

turn    to    her.     She    did  not   hear  what 

KuTHERFORB  had  said,   but  is  evidently 

struck  with  the  sudden  stillness. 

Eve.  [-4  little  aickwardli/.]   Oh,  Bartley — Miriam 

Bays  you've  been  down  here  quite  long  enough — she 

wants 

Laurence,  [ffastily.]  We  were  just  going.  If  I 
can  get  Rutherford  up.  Do  him  good,  I  think,  to 
put  his  head  under  the  pump.     Come  along  ! 

[He  pushes  Eutherford  to   the  door.     The 
shock  has  completely  sobered  him,  and  he 
walks  with  a  dreadful  consciotisness  of  what 
he  has  done.  Bartley'*  eyes  follow  him  and 
Laurence — his  face  gives  no  sign.    At  the 
door  Laurence  turns  and  says,  "  Coming, 
you  fellows  ?  "  then  he  goes,  still  clutching 
Rutherford.      Eve,  who  also  has  been 
watching  them,  turns  to  Bartley. 
Eve.  Well,  Bartley — Mr.  Parning? 
Toby.  [Recovering  himself]  Yes.     Come,  Bartley. 
[He  takes  a  step  to  the  door. 
Bartley.  Wait.     One  minut*.    [He  nods  to  Eve.] 
All  right,  Eve.     In  a  minute. 

Eve.  [With  rather  an  anxious  look  at  himl\  You 
won't  be  long  ? 

Bartley.  No.     Oh  no. 

[She  goes,  and  shuts  the  door.     Toby  turru  to 
Bartley,  and  forces  a  laugh. 
Toby.  Extraordinary,  that  chap,  when  the  wind's  in 
him !      He  simply  hasn't  an  idea  of  what  he's  saying. 


S2  FREEDOM 

Bartlky.  [Still  in  a  dvll  dazed  voice.l  What  did  he 
mean — when  he 

Toby.  [Noisily.^  My  dear  chap,  he  didn't  mean — 
he  was  far  from  meaning !  Ask  your  '84  port  what 
he  meant — and  you'd  have  to  put  the  question  to  the 
best  part  of  two  bottles !  And  I  say — look  here — 
since  we  have  a  minute — you  know  the  review  last 
week  of  Professor  Wilkins's  book?  Well — the 
pompous  old  idiot — threatens  to  serve  us — with  a 
writ! 

Bartlby.  Professor — Wilkins  ? 

Toby.  Yes.  Got  the  letter  to-night — from  his 
lawyers.  The  review  was  a  bit  scathing,  of  course. 
Miriam  wrote  it. 

Bartley.  Miriam — wrote  it  ? 

Toby.  [N'odding.]  ,Yes.  And  he  demands  —  a 
complete  and  grovelling  apology!  Of  course  that's 
absurd.     But  I  fancy  a  few  editorial  words 

Bartley.  What  did — Rutherford — mean  ? 

Toby.  [Merrill/.]  Oh,  my  dear  fellow — still  harping 
on  that!  Don't  be  a  goose!  Tell  me — about  old 
Wilkins 

Bartley.  [Still  in  tke  same  dull  voice.]  Rutherford 
said — Laurence  and  Miriam 

Toby.  Rutherford's  drunk. 

Bartley.  Laurence  and  Miriam. 

Toby.  [Laying  a  hand  on  his  arm.]  Old  man,  don't 
be  silly  !  Let's  go  upstairs.  You'll  put  in  that  word 
or  two. 


FREEDOM  $9 

Bartlsy.  [Raising  his  head,  and  looking  at  Aim.]  I 
want  you  to  tell  me. 

ToBT.  [More  and  more  noisily.]  Man  alive,  isn't  this 
stupid  ?     He  said  the  first  thing  that  came  into  his 

head.     He 

Baetley.  Tell  me. 

Toby.  But  good  Heavens  I     Don't  you  see  yourself 

how  absurd 

Baetley.  [Suddenly  freeing  himself,  toith  a  scream, 
that  is  strangled  in  his  throat.]  Oh ! 

[He  rushes  wildly  out  of  the  room.  Toby  has 
tried  to  clutch  and  restrain  him — he  follows, 
crying,  "  Bartley,  Bartley  1 " 


XHE  CUBTAIN  FALLS  QUICKLY 


ACT  II 

[The  drawing  room  at  the  Chambees's.  It  is  a  dotihle 
room,  on  the  first  floor,  connected  hy  folding -doors 
on  the  left  with  another  room  inside.  These  doors 
are  at  present  closed.  The  windows  are  at  the 
back :  two  long  windows  of  the  conventional 
London  house,  extending  down  to  the  floor,  with 
probably  a  balcony  outside.  These  windows  art 
heavily  curtained.  Between  them  are  long  book- 
shelves encased  in  glass  ;  on  ths  broad  shelf  above^ 
statuettes,  photographs  of  children,  and  variou>s 
knicknacks.  In  front  is  a  sofa.  In  the  left 
comer  is  a  cabinet  with  china — further  a  revolving 
bookcase,  with  library  books,  reviews  and  magazines 
on  the  top.  In  the  opposite  comer  a  grand  piano. 
The  fire-place  is  in  the  centre  of  the  right  wall ; 
there  is  a  sofa  on  one  side  of  it,  by  the  piano — on 
the  other  side  a  long  settee,  unth  no  back — betweert 
ths  two,  a  couple  of  armchairs.  The  door  is  up 
stage,  to  the  right. 

Close  to  the  folding -doors  that  lead  to  the  inner  room  is 
a  card-table,  on  whichis  a  bridge-box,  with  markers, 
etc.  Chairs  are  placed  at  each  side  of  the  table, 
85 


36  FREEDOM 

There  arejloioers,  of  the  conventional  order,  about 
the  room,  which  is  empty,  when  the  curtain  rises. 

[Agkes  and  Evi:  corns  in,  Agnbs  toith  hsr  arm 
affectionately  round  her. 

Agnxs.  Poor   dear   Eve!      It   was  a  very  great 
shame ! 

EvK.  /  am  ashamed — to  have  been  so  silly. 
AoNM.  My  fault.     I  shouldn't  have  persuaded  you. 
Eve.  I  can't  think  what  made  me.  \She  moves  from 
Agnm,  and  sits  on  the  sofa  at  the  hack.']  You  know,  it 
was  very  hot  down  there. 

Agnes.  It's  very  warm  here,  don't  you  think  ? 
EvB.     Yes.     All  the  windows  are  closed.     I  love 
air. 
Agnes.  I  think  we  might  open  one. 

[She  goes  to  the  back,  pulls  a  curtain,  and  opens 
a  window. 
EvB.  [Rising.]  Let  me  help  you. 

[She  goes  to  Agnes,  who  has  already  opened  the 

window.     Miriam  comes  in,  with  Fakny. 

They  have  evidently  heen  having  some  sort 

of  little  argument  on  the  stairs. 

Miriam.  [Talking  to  Fanny  as  she  comes  in.]  Dear 

Mrs.  Collins,  you  really  misunderstand  me  ! 

Fanny.    [A  little  sidkily^    I  don't  know.     I  can 
see  it  has  made  a  difference.     That's  all. 

[Miriam  shakes  her  head.    Agnes  steps  forward. 
Agnes.  Miriam,  we've  opened  a  window,  you  don't 
mind? 


FREEDOM  87 

Miriam.  Not  at  all.  Oh,  Parkes  has  put  out  the 
card-table,  I  see.     I  don't  fancy  we'll  want  to — <— 

Fanny.  Oh,  yes,  for  goodness'  sake,  let's  have  a 
game.  [She  goes  to  the  card-table,  sits  behind  it,  and 
takes  out  the  cards.  They  are  both  new  packs;  she 
proceeds  to  strip  the  paper  off  one  of  them,  and  then 
deals  the  cards  out  one  by  one,  in  Jive  little  heaps,  to 
shuffle  them.  Then,  looking  up.]  I  suppose  we'd 
better  wait  for  the  men  ? 

[Eve  has  wandered  to  the  bach  of  the  roorrif 
and  is  turning  over  the  books  on  the 
revolving  stand.  Agnes  and  Mieiam  are 
both  looking  a  little  uncomfortably  at 
Fanny. 

Miriam.  Eve  and  Agnes  don't  play. 

Fanny.  Have  a  double  dummy  ? 

Miriam,  Oh  no,  they  won't  be  long. 

Agnes.  [Going  impulsively  to  Fanny,  and  sitting  to 
the  left  of  her.]  Dear  Mrs.  Collins,  I'd  like  to  tell  you 
— one  didn't  have  an  opportunity  downstairs 

Fanny.  [Breaking  in  pettishly.]  I  was  a  great  ass  to 
say  anything.     Wish  I  hadn't. 

Miriam.  On  the  contrary,  you  were  quite  right. 
What  is  completely  beyond  me,  is  Rutherford 
refusing. 

Fanny.  [With  a  shrug,  still  dealing  out  the  cards.] 
He  says  he  won't  till  his  mother  dies. 

Miriam.  [Going  to  the  table,  sitting,  facing  Agnes.] 
Why? 


88  FREEDOM 

Fanny.  Ask  him.  All  black  lace  and  white  hair, 
his  mother.     Filigree  hands.     That  sort. 

Agnes.  You  know  her  ? 

Fanny.  Bless  you,  no !  I'm  not  worthy.  Bishop's 
widow — came  once,  when  I  was  out — he  had  arranged 
that — to  see  the  boy.  But  I  made  such  a  rumpus 
that  won't  occur  again. 

Miriam.  [Indignantly.]  A  nice  way  to  treat  you ! 

Fanny.  [Indifferently ^  as  she  gathers  up  the  cards  and 
shuffles  them.]  I'm  not  "  class  "  enough  for  his  mother. 
Class  enough  to  look  after  him — and  say  he's  out 
when  the  duns  call,  and  do  all  the  drudgery — but  not 
for  him  to  marry.    He's  a  dreadful  snob. 

Agnes.  But  I  can't  understand — he's  so  proud  of 
his  boy ! 

Fanny.  [With  a  gleam  oftendemessi]  Yes — he  can't 
help  that — little  "Wilfrid  ....  And  I  thought,  too, 
that  because  of  him  ....  Well,  he  says  when  his 
mother  dies.  She's  the  sort  to  live  to  a  hundred. 
And  if  she  did  die,  there'd  probably  be  an  aunt. 

Miriam.  [Verysarnestly.']  I'm  sorry.  I'm  wry  sorry. 
I're  always  thought  such  a  lot  of  Rutherford.  I'd 
never  have  believed  it ! 

Agnes.  Nor  I.    Never  ! 

Fanny.  [With  a  snigger.]  Becauie  of  the  articles  he 
writes  ?  Bless  you,  he  has  his  tongue  in  his  cheek 
when  he  writes  them !  And  I'll  tell  you  more.  All 
the  men  have ! 

Miriam.  [Sternly.]  You  mustn't  say  that.  It's 
absui'd. 


FREEDOM  S9 

Agneb.  Of  course.     Oh  no,  oh  no 

Fanst,  [Carelessly,  as  she  spreads  out  the  cards 
again,  and  then  gathers  them  up.]  Oh,  wait  till  the 
shoe  pinches  them  ! 

MiEiAM.  Men  aren't  all  the  same.  Very  likely  some 
are  not  sincere.     But  not  all. 

Fanny,  \As  she  turns  her  head,  with  half  a  shrug  a/nd 
half  a  yawn.]  What's  Mrs.  Targill  doing  ? 

Eve.  [Still  turning  over  the  books.]  Just  listening. 
Agnes.  Why  not  play  to  us,  Eve  ? 
Eve.  [To  Miriam.]  Would  you  like  me  to  ? 
Miriam.  Yes,  dear.     Do. 

[Eve  goes  to  the  piano — opens  it,  without  lifting 

the  wing,  a/nd  begins   to  play    a    Chopin 

Nocturne.  She  plays  very  softly — when  the 

others  start  talking  again^  as  they  do  almost 

immediately,  she  plays  to  softly  as   to  be 

scarcely  audible — and,  in  a  minute  or  two, 

leaves  the  piano,  and  goes  back  to  her  books. 

Miriam.  [Firmly.]  I'll  speak  to  Eutherford. 

Fanny.  [Who  has  taken  out   the  other  pack^  ard 

begun  the  same  process  unth  that.]  I  wouldn't  if  I  were 

you. 

Miriam.  And  Bartley  shall  too. 
Fannv.  [Carelessly.]  He  won't  mind. 
Miriam.  We'll  see  about  that.    If  he  doesn't  marry 
you,  he  shan't  be  on  the  paper  any  more. 

Faitnt.  [With  a  shrug.]  Lot  of  good  that  would  do 
me.  I  can  only  just  manage  now.  The  paper's  the 
one  thing  he  sticks  to. 


40  FREEDOM 

Miriam.  It  means  something,  doesn't  it,  to  us — the 
paper  ?     And  can  we  allow  a  man  to  work  on  it 

Fanny.  [Still  playing  with  the  cards.]  All  very  well 
for  you  two.     You've  money. 

Agnes.  It's  not  a  question  of  money ! 

Fanny.  Yes,  it  is.    And  always  will  be. 

Miriam.  [Eagerly.]  How  can  you  say  that  ?  What 
has  money  to  do  with  it  ?  Don't  you  see  how  degrad- 
ing your  position  is  ? 

Fanny.  [Quite  unmoved.]  You  see,  I  was  fond  of 
him. 

Miriam.  Well — wasn't  he,  of  you  ? 

Fanny.  But  I  wasn't  quite  able  to — ask  it — then. 

Miriam.  What  do  you  mean  ? 

Fanny.  [Carelessly.]  Oh,  just  that.  I'd  had  an — 
adventure — when  I  was  very  young.  In  fact — since 
you  must  know — I  was  living  with  another  man  when 
Rutherford  met  me.  There.  That's  been  my  life — 
those  two  men.  I  liked  Rutherford  much  better  than 
the  other — I  left  the  other.  I  couldn't  ask  Ruther- 
ford to  marry  me  at  the  time — but  I  thought  he 
would,  later.     Well,  he  hasn't — and  he  never  will. 

Miriam.  [Firmly.]  He  shall. 

Fanny.  Oh  no,  he  won't.  And  I'll  tell  you  more. 
He  only  keeps  me,  because  of  the  boy. 

Miriam.  [Fiercely.]  Keeps  you  ! 

AoNES.  [Shocked.]  My  dear ! 

Fanny.  [Cheerfully.]  Yes.  And  if  it  weren't  for 
Wilfrid  he'd  send  me  packing  to-morrow.  So  it's  not 
worth  talking  about  really — is  it  ? 


FREEDOM  41 

Miriam.  How  can  you  allow  it,  accept  it  ? 

Agnes.  This  is  just  the  sort  of  thing  we're  fighting  I 
But  when  we  women  all  stand  together 

Fanny.  Only  you  never  will,  for  one  thing — and, 
for  another,  there'll  always  be  the  woman  like  me. 
[She  stifles  a  yaum.]  Oh,  I  do  wish  we  could  have  some 
bridge ! 

Miriam.  [Looking  round  the  room.]  Eve  dear, 
you're  by  the  bell.  Would  you  mind  ringing? 
We'll  let  the  men  know  we  want  them.  They've 
been  down  quite  long  enough. 

Eve.  Shall  I  go  and  tell  them,  Miriam  ? 

Miriam.  It  would  be  very  sweet  of  you,  dear. 

Eve.  I  will,  gladly.  [She  goes. 

Miriam.  [Bending  eagerly  over  Fanny.]  Mrs. 
Collins,  we  haven't  seen  you  very  often.  We  shall 
hope  to,  in  future.  And  we'll  leave  this  to  Bartley. 
No,  no,  I  assure  you,     I'm  certain  that  Bartley 

Fanny.  Rutherford  says  to  me,  *'  You're  free,  aren't 
you  ?  Isn't  that  what  women  are  shrieking  for  ? 
Freedom ! " 

Miriam.  [Indignantly.']  That's  freedom  for  men, 
not  women  !     It's  quite  too  disgraceful  I 

Agnes.  Of  course.  You  can't  leave  him,  because  of 
the  boy. 

Fanny.  [  Carelessly, as  she  plays  with  the  cards  again.  ] 
You  see,  I'm  one  of  the  betwixts  and  betweens.  Not 
like  you  and  Miss  Bell.  Just  got  my  bit  of  good 
looks.     And  they're  going. 

Agnes.  [Fervently.]   There    are  no  betwixts   and 


4«  FREEDOM 

betweens!  We  all  have  our  eelf-reipect  and  our 
dignity ! 

Fanny.  Yes,  yes,  I  know.  Well,  some  are,  and 
some  aren't. 

Miriam.  Aren't  what  ? 

Fannt.  Fit  for  it. 

MiBiAM.  Fit  for  what  ?     What  do  you  mean  ? 

Fanny.  [With  a  nod  in  Agnes's  direction.]  What 
she  calls  the  dignity,  self-respect,  and  all  that.  I  tell 
you,  there  are  lots  like  me. 

Miriam.  [Pasgionatdy.]  But  th«re  shan't  be !  That 
shall  all  change ! 

Fanny.  [With  a  shrug.]  I  don't  know.  Anyhow — 
I'm  jolly  sorry  I  let  it  out ! 

[The  door  opens,  and  Laurence  comes  in,  look- 
ing very  whits^  and  still  clutching  Ruther- 
ford, who  is  almost  piteously  miserable  and 
ashamed,  and  completely  sobered  by  the 
shock.  Laurence  stops  by  the  door,  gives 
a  look  round  the  room,  and  calls  quietly^ 
"  Miriam  !  "     She  turns  to  him. 

Miriam.  Well  ?    Where  are  the  others  ? 
Laukkncb.  Will  you  come  here  a  moment  ? 

[Miriam  rises  and  goes  to  him ;  Aqnes  and 
Fanny  watch  them  curiously. 

Laurence.  [In  a  low  voice.]  This  fool — has  told. 
Miriam.  [With a  start.]  What! 
RuTHBRFORD.  [Twisting  his  hands.]  I'm  so — dread- 
fully— sorry. 


FREEDOM  48 

Laurence.  [Very  ntrvously.]  They'll  be  her*  in  a 

minute.    Do  you  think  I'd  better 

Miriam.  [Quickly.]  Sh,  sh.     "What  did  he 

Laurekce.  Eve  came  in^  just  at  the  moment.  .  .  . 
I  don't  know  whether  he  ...  I  went  out,  with 
Rutherford.     What  shall  we  do  ? 

Miriam.  [Coldly — she  hcbs  regained  complete  self- 
control.]  Fanny  wants  some  bridge. 

Rutherford.  [Moving  to  her.]    Miriam — I — T — 

the  fact  is,  I  was 

Miriam.  [Without  looking  at  him,  returning  to  the 
table.]  Sit  down.     Let's  cut  for  partners. 

[Laurence  and  Rutherford  follow  her  to 
the  card-table. 

Agnes  [Anxiously.]  Miriam — has  anything 

Fannt.  [Roughly.]  "What  has  Rutherford  been  up 
to  now? 

Rutherford.  [Miserably.]  Oh,  good  God — I 

Miriam.  [Who  has  sat  to  the  right  of  Fanny.] 
Out,  Rutherford.     And  you,  Laurence. 

[They   both    do    so,   mechanically.     She   and 
Fanny  turn  up  a  card. 
Miriam.  Fanny,  you  were  the  lowest.    It's  your 
deal. 

Fannt.  Yes,  I  cut  a  two.  I've  got  Rutherford  for 
a  partner !     Not  my  lucky  day,  this  isn't. 

[Laurence  has  sat  opposite  Miriam,  Ruthir- 
roRD  between  them  ;  Fannt  has  offered  the 
cards  to  Laurence,  and  nudges  his  dbow  ; 
he  cuts ;  she  proceeds  to  deal,  in  complete 


44  FREEDOM 

unconcern.     Eve  comes  in — they  all  turn 
their  heads  io  her,  except  Fanny,  who  goes 
on  dealing. 
Miriam.  [Quietly,    to    Eve.]   Aren't    Bartley  and 
Toby  coming,  Eve  ? 

Eve.  Yes.     In  a  minute. 

Laurence.    [N'ervously.]  Eve — did  Bartley 

Miriam,  [Reprovingly.]  Laurence — please.  Eve, 
what  wiU  you  do?  There's  a  chair  behind  you, 
Agnes. 

[Yaicsy  Jinishes  her  deal — Evb  wanders  to  the 
piano,  and  stands  with  her  back  to  the 
others.  Agnes  remains  behind  Fanny's 
chair.  Laurence's  face  twitches,  hut  he 
shows  no  other  sign. 
Rutherford.  [Who  is  quite  broken-hearted,  whis- 
pering to  Miriam.]  Oh,  Miriam,  I 

Miriam.  Do  be  quiet.  [She  gathers  up  her' cards,  as 
do  the  others.]  It  is  hot  in  here. 

Eve.  [Turning.]  Shall  I  open  the  window  a  little 
more? 

Miriam.  If  you  would,  dear.  Parkes  always  builds 
up  a  huge  fire  when  we  don't  want  it.  Fanny,  your 
call. 

[Eve  goes  to  the  window,  and  opens  it  a  little 
more. 
Fanny.  [Chuckling  over  ajvixe  Aonrt!.]  No  trumps. 
Miriam.  Two  clubs.     Rutherford  ? 
Rutherford.  \Whose  hands  tremble  so  violently  he 
can  sca/rcdy  hold  his  cards.]  Oh 


FREEDOM  45 

Miriam.  [Impatiently/.]  Well? 

RUTHERFOED.    I paSS. 

Miriam.  Bo  be  on  your  game.     Laurence  ? 
Laurence.  [Who  has  scarcely  looked  at  his  cards.] 
I  call  a  diamond. 
Miriam.   Don't    be   silly — I've    gone  two    clubs. 

You'll  have  to 

Fanny.  Oh,  never  mind.     Two  no  trumps. 
Miriam.  [Looking  at  her  cards  again.]  Three  clubs. 
[She  puts  them  down.]  Rutherford  ? 

Rutherford.  [Miserably.]  Oh 

Miriam.  [Impatiently.]  Well? 

[The  door  bursts  open,  and  Bartley  comes 
tearing  in.  He  is  /rightfully  excited — 
completely  beside  himsdf.  He  gives  a  wild 
look  round,  goes  to  the  card-table,  and 
hangs  his  fist  on  it.  Fanny  gets  up, 
very  annoyed  at  the  interruption — Agnes 
screams-— the  cards  fall  from  Ruther- 
ford's hands.  Laurence  and  Miriam 
give  no  sign.  Eve  stands  by  the  voindow^ 
watching. 
Miriam.  [Reproachfully,  as  she  turns  to  Am.] 
Bartley  ! 

Bartley.  Is  it  true  ? 
Miriam.  [Steadily.]  Yes. 

Bartley.  [Leaning  across  the  table,  his  fists  clenched^ 
his  face  almost  touching  Laurence's.]  Beast ! 

[Laurence  springs   to    his  feet ;   Toby  has 
come    in,  panting,   and   catches  hold    of 


46  FREEDOM 

Bartley — Miriam  exclaims  under  her 
breath,  but  doesn't  stir.  Fanny  gives 
am,other  look  at  ?ier  cards,  then,  very  regret- 
fully, puts  them  down,  and  walks  away, 
with  a  shrug.  Agnes  stares  at  them,  wild- 
eyed.  Eve  merely  watches. 
Toby.  [Clinging  to  him.]  Bartley — what  are  you 
doing  ? 

Agnes.  [Wringing  her  hands.]  Bartley,  Bartley  ! 
Toby.  Eve's  here !     Think  of  Eve  ! 

[Mechanically  Bartley  turns  his  head,  as  do 
the  others,  except  Miriam,  who  still  does 
not  stir.     Eye  steps  forward. 
Eve.  [Quietly.]  Laurence — let's  go. 
Toby.  Yes,  yes — you'd  better. 
Bartley.  [Madly,  trying  to  shake  off  Toby,  toAo 
clings  desperately  to  him.]  He  shan't  go — he  shan't ! 
KuTHERFOBD.  [Eagerly,  to  Bartley.]  Look  here — 

I  was  drunk,  that's  all — didn't  mean 

Bartley.  [Bending  over  Miriam.]  You  say  that  it's 
true?     It  is? 

Miriam.  [Rising ^  and  facing  him^  Yes,  I  tell  you. 
Yes! 

Bartley.  [Almost  foaming  at  the  mouth,  as  he  yells 
at  Laurence.]  You  dog  I    You  hound  I 

[Toby  and  Rutherford  both  hang  on  to 
Bartley,  who  tries  madly  to  get  at 
Laurence.  Agnes  is  in  the  deepest  dis- 
tress— Fanny  looks  on  ironically,  leaning 
against   the  wall.     Ete  goes  quietly  to 


FREEDOM  47 

Laurence,  wifioae  mood  has  changed  to  one 
of  defiant  anger. 

Eve.  \Touching  him  on  the  «AottW«r.]  Come. 

Bartley.  [Madly.]  He  shan't  go,  I  tell  you  ! 

Eve.  [Leaving  Laurence  and  taking  a  step  toward* 
Bartley.]  Bartley. 

Bartlet.  [Turning  haggardly  to  her."]  Yes? 

Eve.  [Shaking  her  head.]  Don't.  .  .  .  [She  moves 
to  the  dooTf  and  calls.]  Laurence  ! 

Laubence.  [Sidkily,  aa  he  goes  to  her.]  All  right. 
[As  he  passes  Bartley,  he  looks  at  him  truculently.] 
But  I  don't  want  him  to  think 

Bartley.  [Trying  his  hardest  to  shake  o^Toby  and 
Rutherford.]  The  low  scoundrel,  the  ruffian 

Laurence.  [Shouting.]  Don't  yell  at  me  like  that  I 
Don't  call  me  such  names ! 

Bartley.  I've  paid  his  debts  —  I've  given  him 
money 

Miriam.  [Scornfully.]  Money ! 

Laurence.  [With  a  turn  towards  Bartley.]  Look 
here — I  won't  have  that — t  won't 

Eve.  [Stej^ing  between  them.]  Come. 

Laurence.  [Sulkily.]  Yes.     Only 

Eve.  [With  authority.]  Come,  I  tell  you  ! 

Laurence.  Miriam — shall  I  ? 

Miriam.  [Feverishly.]  Yes,  yes,  of  course !  Go,  all 
of  you — please ! 

[EvB  takes  Laurence  by  the  arm;  he  goes 
very  reluctantly,  muttering  defiance — while 


48  FREEDOM 

Baetlet  yells  incoherently  ai  Aim,  ttiU 
struggling  with  Toby  and  Rutheefohd. 

RuTHEEFOD.  [Releasing  his  hold  as  soon  as  the  door 
has  closed,  with  a  movement  towards  Mieiam.]  I'm  so 
— dreadfully — sorry 

Fannt.  [Clutching  him  roughly  by  the  shoulder.] 
Gome  along !     No  good  your  saying  any  more  1 

RuTHEEFOED.  [Miserably.']  Miriam 

Mieiam,  Go,  go  I 

RuTHEEFOED.  [To  Baetlby.]  You  know — I  was 

Fanny.  [Pushing  him  along.]  How  much  oftener 
do  you  want  to  tell  them  that  ?  [She  gets  him  to  the 
door.]  And  just  my  luck  !  The  very  best  hand  I've 
ever  held  in  my  life ! 

[She  pushes  him  out — he  is  still  muttering 
excuses.  She  closes  the  door  after  them — 
and  can  be  heard  outside,  saying,  "  A  hun- 
dred aces,  and  seven  diamonds,  to  the 
king,  queen,  knave !  " 

Toby.  [Releasing  Baetley.]  Now,  for  Heaven's 
sake,  Bartley !  And  you,  Miriam — a  moment  of 
calm :  Pride,  of  course,  and  all  that — oh,  yes.  But 
don't  play  with  him  now !  Don't  you  see  he's  nearly 
oflf  his  head  ?  You've  been  friends  with  Laurence,  of 
course.  Resented  Bartley's  tone,  his  questions.  But 
what  on  earth  makes  you 

MiBiAJf .  [Firmly.]  That's  no  use,  Toby.  He  asked, 
was  it  true.     And  I  said,  yes.     It  is ! 

Baetley.  [Roaring.]  You! 


FREEDOM  49 

[Ris  movement  is  so  fierce  that  Toby  dutches 
him  again  in  alarm. 

Toby.  Bartley,  Bartley ! 

Bartley.  You  hear  what  she  says !     You  hear  ! 

Agnes.  She's  your  wife,  Bartley  ! 

Bartley.  Don't  talk  to  me  I    Go  away  ! 

Toby.  We  can't  leave  you  like  this  !  Miriam,  I  do 
beg  of  you 

Miriam.  [Feverish  and  exalted.]  I  ought  to  have 
told  him  before  !     I  ought  to  have  told  him  myself. 

Bartley.  Told  me !  That's  all  she  thinks  of ! 
That's  all ! 

Miriam.  And  I'm  glad  that  he  knows !     I'm  glad ! 

Bartley.  You  are,  are  you  ?  That's  fine  !  Well, 
he  shall  be,  too,  when  I  get  him  !     You  wait ! 

Toby.  Bartley,  control  yourself  !  You  must,  really  J 
You  must ! 

Bartley.  [Turning  on  him.]  Why  don't  you  go  ? 
What  business  is  this  of  yours  ?  [He  turns  to  Agnes.] 
And  you,  too,  over  there,  with  your  fine  speeches ! 
Why  don't  you  leave  us?  This  is  our  affair,  isn't  it  ? 
Go! 

Toby.  [Clutching  him  again.]  Bartley,  Bartley,  I 
say !  What  are  you  thinking  of  ?  what  are  you 
doing  ?  Your  eyes  are  starting  out  of  your  head — 
you  look  like  a  murderer !  Control  yourself,  for 
God's  sake! 

[In  his  blind  fury ,  Bartley  raises  an  arm,  as 
though  to  strike  Toby — then  he  suddenly 
collapses — his  body   goes  limp — he  would 

D 


50  FREEDOM 

have  fallen,  but  for  Toby,  who  catches  Atm, 
and  drags  him  to  the  settle  by  the  fire. 
AaNES.  \Wiih  a  cry.]  He  has  fainted ! 

[Miriam,  who  has  never  moved  from  the  card- 
table,  seems  suddenly  to  awake — she  goes 
anxiously  to  the  others. 
Toby.  [Bending  over  him.]  No,  no — just  give  him 
a  glass  of  water.  .  .  .  Don't  worry — he  has  been  like 
this  before.  .  .  .  Is  there  any  water?  [Miriam  has 
gone  to  the  bell — he  stops  her.]  No,  no,  don't  ring — 

we  don't  want  the  servants 

[AQ^^a  fishes  a  small  bottle  of  salts  out  of  her 

bag  and  gives  it  to  Toby. 

Toby.  Yes,  yes — here,  smell  this,  .  .  .  That's  right 

— he's  better.  .  .  .  [Re  turns  to  Agnes.]  I  say,  won't 

you  go  ?    Don't  you  think  ?    Just  leave  me — perhaps 

I  can 

Agnes.  [Shaking  her  head.]  Wait. 

[Baetley    slowly  comes  to,   breathing    very 

heavily.    Miriam  stands  at  the  back  of  the 

room,  watching  him.    Agnes  is  on  one  side 

of  Bartley,  Toby  on  the  other. 

Babtlby.  [Completely  broken,  in  a  low  wail.]  Oh, 

my  God !     Oh,  my  God  ! 

Agnes.  [Gently.]  Bartley 

Bartley.  Agnes,  Agnes  !    Oh,  Agnes,  think  of  it ! 
Agnes.  Bartley,  listen.     This  is  a  great  blow  to 
you.     It  is — to  me.    But  meet  it  like  a  man,  Bartley 
— ^like  the  man  that  you  are. 


FREEDOM  61 

Bartlet.  [Faintly.]  It  was  the  .  .  .  suddenness. 
It  was  the  .  .  .  shock. 

Agnes.  I  am  fonder  of  you  two  than  of  anyone  in 
the  world,  [She  takes  his  hand — holds  it  in  hers  for  a 
moment,  then  goes  to  Mieiam.]  Miriam,  think  only 
now  of  what  he  is  suffering.  [She  kisses  her.]  Come, 
Toby. 

Toby.  Yes,  yes.  .  .  .  [He  is  deeply  moved,  and  twms 
slowly  from  Bartlby  to  Miriam.]  Bartley — ^the 
outside  world's  going  on — 'busses  and  trams  are 
running. 

Agnes.  [At  the  door.]  Come. 

Toby.  Yes,  yes.  ,  .  .  But  I  mean  .  .  .  there  are 
millions  and  millions  of  people  .  .  . 

[He  looks  at  them  again,  then  goes  abruptly, 
followed  by  Agnes,  who  closes  the  door. 
There  is  a  moment's  silence.  Miriam 
stands  where  she  did,  scarcely  moving : 
Bartley,  still  breathing  heavily,  is  staring 
into  the  fire. 
Bartley.  [In  a  low  voice,  without  turning  his  head.] 
Well? 

Miriam.  [Gently.]  I  am  sorry  to  have  given  you 
this  pain. 

[Bartley  warms  his  hands  m^hanieally  at 
the  fire.     Miriam  drops  into  a  chair  hy 
the  card-table. 
Bartlby.  [Still  not  looking  at  her^  and  in  the  same 
dull,  dazed  voice.]  I  thought  you  loved  me, 
Miriam.  I  do. 


52  FREEDOM 

Bartley.  [Looking  at  her  in  surprise  for  a  moment, 
then  turning  to  the  fire  ugain^  That's  odd — that's 
very  odd.  I  don't  quite  understand.  You  love  me 
— and  you  are  his — mistress  ? 

Miriam.  \With  an  impatient  gesture.]  That's  a 
loathsome  word — please  don't  use  it.  I  am  nobody's 
mistress — I  am  my  own  mistress. 

[Bartley  gives  a  faint  shrug — there  is  again 
a  moment's  silence. 

Bartley.  The  two  children  upstairs — are  they 
mine? 

Miriam.  You're  not  quite  yourself  yet. 

Bartley.  Then  I  suppose  they  are.  I  should  be 
sorry  if  they  weren't.  But  would  you  tell  me — if 
they  weren't  ? 

Miriam.  [Restlessly.]  That's  not  the  way  to  talk  to 
me.  If  you're  going  to  talk  like  that,  it  won't  help 
us.  I  could  have  denied  it  all,  couldn't  I  ?  Ruther- 
ford would  have  gone  on  his  knees,  withdrawn 
everything.  And  of  course  you'd  have  believed  me. 
Wouldn't  you  ? 

Bartley.  Yes. 

Miriam.  I  wouldn't  do  it.  I  hate  lies — I  don^t 
lie.  I  loathed  your  not  knowing.  I  wanted  you  to 
know. 

Bartley,  [Turning  to  her  again.]  Then  why  didn't 
you  tell  me  ? 

Miriam.  [Slowly.]  I  suppose  it  was  something  of 
the — old-fashioned  woman  in  me — that  kept  me  from 
telling  you.     I  meant  to,  again  and  again.     Then  I 


FREEDOM  68 

said,  to-morrow.  I'm  ashamed  enough  !  But  now 
you  shall  know  all — all — and  you  may  be  perfectly 
certain  that  what  I'm  saying  is  absolutely  true.  Till 
a  few  months  ago  you  had  been  the  only  man  in  my 
life — I  had  never  even  thought  of  another  man.  Do 
you  believe  that  ? 

Baetley.  Yes. 

Miriam.  Then — Laurence [She  stops. 

Bartley.  You  love  him  ? 

M  iriam.  [Shaking  her  head.]  No. 

Bartley.  [Still  in  the  same  dull,  quiet  tone.]  Come, 
come,  that's  absurd,  isn't  it  ?  Would  you  have — done 
this — if  you  hadn't  loved  him  ?  You're  not  that  sort 
of  woman.     Oh  no. 

Miriam.  [Rising,  moving  swiftly  to  the  settle,  and 
sitting  beside  him.]  Wait — wait — and  listen.  You're 
quite  calm  now — you're  splendid — and  that  makes  it 
easier  for  me  to  tell  you.  And  all — all — hiding 
nothing  I  I  want  you  to  understand  that  you  are  the 
one  man  I  love. 

Bartley.  [Turning  to  her  in  amazement.]  I  ? 

Miriam.  [N'odding.]  Really  love — yes.  And  he — 
hasn't  interfered. 

Bartley.  [Knitting  his  hrow.]  What  ? 

Miriam.  That's  difficult  for  you  to  believe — but 
you  will!  As  /  would  have  if  there'd  been  some 
other  -voman — if,  for  instance,  you  and  Eve 

Bart.ey.  [Amazed,]  Eve!  Good  heaven!  You 
never  imagined 

Miriam.  She's  dumb  with  the  rest  of  us — you're 


54  FREEDOM 

the  one  person  she  talks  to,  or  cares  for.  But  I 
knew,  of  course.  I  just  mention  her  because,  if  it 
had  been,  I'd  still  be  quite  sure  that  Eve,  twenty 
Eves,  couldn't  take  you,  the  real  you,  from  me. 

Bartlet.  And  that's  how  you  want  me  to  think 
about  you  and  Laurence  I 

MiEiAM.  If  you  can.  I  don't  know  whether  you 
can.     It's  the  test. 

Bartlbt.  You  haven't  done  this — to  test  me  ? 

Miriam.  I  did  it  because  I  had  to  do  it. 

Bartlbt.  "Why — if  you  didn't  love  him  ? 

Miriam.  I  didn't  know,  then,  that  I  didn't  love 
him.  But  the  truth  is  that  he  doesn't  matter — that 
he's  outside — call  it  a  freak,  a  caprice,  what  you 
choose !  No — wait,  wait,  let  me  go  on.  I  want 
you  to  see — right  down  into  me.  I  want  to  speak 
to  you — as  I  would  to  God — were  He  judging  mel 
Ever  since  we've  been  married — or  at  least  for  the 
last  few  years — it  has  weighed  on  me — yes,  yes,  it 
has — been  like  a  load  and  a  burden — that  I  wasn't 
free — belonged  to  you,  that  was  the  word,  because  I 
had  married  you.  And  I'm  not  a  morbid  woman — 
I  mean,  I'm  healthy  and  normal — it  wasn't  that  side. 
But  again  and  again  I've  said  to  myself — or  some- 
thing rebellious  inside  me  has  said — it's  not  because 
you  love  Bartley — as  you  do,  as  you  do — that  he  must 
be  the  only  man  in  your  life — but  because  you're  his 
wife,  and  you've  got  to.     You  see  ? 

Bartlby.  [Shaking  his  head.]  No. 

Miriam.  [TTtfA  intense  eagerness,  the  words  pouring 


FREEDOM  55 

0M<.]  But  you  must,  you  must  /  I  didn't  ask  that 
sort  of  fidelity  from  you — didn't  value  it — knew  there 
was  something  bigger  and  greater  than  these  con- 
ventional trifles  !     And  that's  why  I  said  if  you  and 

Eve [He  makes  a  gesture  of  protest.]  Yes,  yes,  I 

know — it's  merely  to  show  you  how  I  felt !  And  he 
did,  too — Laurence.  You're  all  for  Law,  just  law — 
because  it  is  law.  Well,  we're  not,  he  and  I.  There's 
something  in  us  that  hates  law — revolts  from  it — the 
law  that  we  haven't  made  !  As  a  child  I  was  like 
that — always  a  rebel — I  don't  know  why.  But  it's 
in  my  blood — it's  stronger  than  I  am !  And  it 
became  an  obsession  almost — clouded  my  feeling  for 
you — the  chains,  captivity — iron  !  And  your  being 
so  sure  of  me  even  was  galKng — you  were  so 
abominably  sure !  And  then,  one  day,  suddenly, 
I  thought  of  Laurence.  Was  it  love— or  just  an 
escape  ?  I  didn't  know.  But  it  grew — seemed  to 
hide  you,  eclipse  you.  And  for  weeks  and  months  I 
walked  about,  fighting  it,  trying  to  crush  it — because 
I  hadn't  lived  with  you  all  these  years  without 
knowing  how  you  would  sufier  if  I  wasn't  faithful. 
The  hateful  word — but  I  knew  it  was  your  word — 
and  almost  hated  you  for  it !  That  was  where  I  had 
got  to  !  And  he,  in  all  these  long  talks  of  ours,  he 
never  made  love  to  me,  never — but  I  saw — I  saw 
quite  plainly,  that  he,  too.  .  .  .  And  I  knew  he 
would  never,  because  of  his  friendship  for  you, 
because  to  him  too,  I  was  your  property.  .  .  .  And 
I  saw  you  my  prison,  my  jailer,  and  I  behind  bars. 


56  FREEDOM 

.  .  And  then,  one  day,  suddenly,  blinded, 
like  a  bird  trying  to  get  out  of  its  cage — 
wild  with  feelings  I  couldn't  read,  couldn't 
analyse,  but  that  just  overcame  me — I  gave 
myself  to  him — yes,  I  did  !  Triumphantly,  gladly, 
courting  all  risks  !  Proudly,  as  though  I  were  doing 
something  grand  and  magnificent !     But  then 

Baktley.  [Almost  to  himself,  as  he  writhes  in  agony. 1 
My  God  !    Oh,  my  God  I 

Miriam.  [Staring  straight  ahead  of  her,  tmconscious 
of  his  exclamation.]  Then,  I  was  sorry. 

Bartley.  [Mastering  himself,  with  a  great  effort.] 
Why? 

Miriam.  [Slowly.]  I  don't  know — I  was  sorry.  .  .  . 
I  felt  as  though  I'd  come  out  of  a  dream — as  though 
something  dreadful  had  happened — or  I  was  awaking, 
after  some  anaesthetic.  The  triumph,  the  grandeur, 
had  gone — it  all  seemed  squalid  now — he  did.  I 
resented  the  way  he  looked  at  me — his  little  con- 
quering air.  .  .  .  And  I  asked  myself  why — had  / 
changed,  had  he — and  it  burst  upon  me,  in  a  flash — 
it  was  because  I  didn't  love  him,  but  loved  you  !  As 
though  a  cloud  lifted  I  saw — that  I  only  loved  you  ! 

Bartley.  [PTifA  intense,  almost  painful,  nervous 
ness.]  You — told  him  ? 

Miriam.  No,  no,  I  couldn't — it  was  too — sacred ! 
But  all  that  was  I,  myself,  rushed  back  to  you  !  I 
mean,  he  was  forgotten — and  I  saw  only  you  !  Saw, 
oh,  so  clearly,  what  we  really  were  to  each  other — 
more  than  husband  and  wife — much   more !     And 


FREEDOM  57 

you  were  no  longer  the  jailer — but  the  man,  the  one 
man  in  the  world,  whom  I  loved,  or  could  love.  Free 
again — yes,  I  was  free — and,  being  free,  wanted — 
you  ! 

Babtlet.  [Speaking  with  terrible  difficulty.]  But 
still — ^you  and  he — I  mean 

Miriam.  [Turning  to  him.]  What  ? 

Bartley.  You  met — again  ? 

Miriam.  [Carelessly.]  Yes,  yes — once  or  twice. 
Something  foolish — a  kind  of  prudishness  almost — 
kept  me  from  telling  him — that  he'd  just  been  a  pebble 
I'd  picked  up  in  the  road — a  key  I  had  found — that 
unlocked  myself — and  you  !  But  now  it  will  be  very 
simple — and  he  fades  away — goes  back  to  his  place, 
his  poor  place.  ...  Oh,  I'm  so  glad  you've  listened 
to  me  like  this !  This  is  what  I  had  hoped,  had 
expected  !  I  saw  ua  two  talking,  as  we're  doing,  soul 
to  soul ! 

Bartley.  I  mad?  a  dreadful  scene  .  .  .  didn't  I  ? 

Miriam.  That  wasn't  your  fault — it  was  mine.  I 
ought  to  have  gone  to  you,  very  simply,  and  told  you. 
You'd  have  understood  then,  as  you  do  now  ! 

Bartley.  [Still  faintly,  and  almost  crushed  under 
the  blow.]  Yes — in  a  way.   I  do  understand — in  a  way. 

Miriam.  Of  course !  I've  been  through  the  fire, 
Bartley — taken  my  love  for  you  through  the  fire — 
and  looked  at  it  there.  Now  the  future  is  clear — 
with  no  doubts,  no  unhappiness — the  future  I've 
chosen — with  you !  .  .  .  Well — that's  all.  You've 
heard  everything  now.     You've  heard  the  truth. 


58  FREEDOM 

Bartley.  [Slowly.]  I  believe  you  have  told  me  the 
truth,  Miriam. 

Miriam.  [Rappily.]  I  knew  that  you  would — I 
knew  that  you  would  ! 

Bartley.  [Twisting  and  untwisting  his  fingers.'\ 
I've  a  glimmering  of  what  you  mean — ^yes,  I 
have.  .  .  .  I'm  not  pretending  that  it  isn't  a 
.  .  .  shock.  You  see,  it's  rather  difficult  .  .  .  for 
a  man.  .  .  .  But  I  believe  you — I  do.  And  I — 
forgive,  Miriam. 

Miriam.  [Restlessly.]  Oh,  Bartley,  Bartley,  you 
havenH  understood,  if  you  say  that ! 

Bartley.  Perhaps  that  wasn't — quite  the  right 
word.  Don't  let's  bother  about  words.  Of  course 
you  don't  realize — what  this  means — to  me.  But 
never  mind  that.  I  do  understand — in  a  way, 
Miriam.  That  what  you've  done — It  wasn't  quite 
you — my  you — who  did  it. 

Miriam.  [Nodding^  No.  Another  person  alto- 
gether.    A  prisoner  escaping ! 

Bartley.  [Still  twisting  and  untwisting  his  fingers.] 
Yes,  yes,  I'm  sure  you  have  told  me  the  truth.  .  .  . 
It  was  .  .  .  something  outside.  The  something — 
wild — there  always  has  been  in  you. 

Miriam.  Yes. 

Bartley.  I  was  conscious  of  it — ^yes,  I  was — I 
know  I  was,  now.  Though  of  course  I  never  imagined 
— \he  pulls  himself  up  with  a  jerk]  but  that's  gone 
now — it's  gone !  And  you've  come  back  to  me !  ThaCs 
what  I  must  remember — just  that. 


FREEDOM  69 

Miriam.  [Eagerhj.]  Oh,  Bartley,  I  can't  tell  you 
how  happy  you  make  me ! 

Bartlby.  I  mustn't  look  on  you  as  though  you  were 
an  ordinary  woman.  .  .  .  The  difl&culty  now,  of 
course,  is  about  Am.  I  don't  want  to  turn  him  away 
from  the  paper. 

Miriam.  No,  no. 

Bartley.  Hit  paper,  after  all.  I  don't  want  to  be 
vindictive — to  punish.  And  I'll  leave  my  money  in 
it,  too.     We'll  go  out  of  it,  you  and  I. 

Miriam.  [Looking  at  him  with  surprise.]  Why 
should  we? 

Bartley.  [Turning  and  staring  at  her.]  Why  ? 

Miriam.  Yes.  You're  doing  such  splendid  work 
there. 

Bartley.  [After  a  moment's  bewildered  patise.]  But 
— my  dear — I  must  either  send  him  away— or  give  up 
the  editorship — mustn't  I  ?  You  see,  he  comes  every 
day — does  a  lot  of  work  there.  I  can't  meet  him 
again. 

Miriam.  Oh,  Bartley — isn't  that  foolish  ? 

Bartley.  [Shaking  his  head.]  No,  no,  only  human. 
I'm.  only — an  ordinary  man,  you  know.  And  besides 
— isn't  it  obvious  that  we  mu^t  cut  ourselves  adrift 
from  the  paper — if  only  to  prevent  your  meeting  him  ? 

Miriam.  [Open-eyed.]  To  prevent  my 

Bartley.  Of  course,  of  course. 

Miriam.  But — haven't  I  told  you 

Bartley.  [N'ervously,  looking  hard  at  her.]  Yes, 
jes.     But,  naturally,  you  must  never  see  him  again. 


60  FREEDOM 

[A  shadow  comes  over  her  face,  something  of  disappoint- 
ment.] You  mean  that — surely  you  meant  it ! 

Miriam.  [With  a  slight  shake  of  the  head.]  No. 

Bartley.  You  didn't ! 

Miriam.  [With  a  little  shrug.]  Come,  come,  can  it 
matter — in  the  very  least  bit — whether  I  see  him 
again  or  not  ?     You  know  that  I 

Bartley  [Firmli/.]  Miriam,  you  mttst  not  see  him 
again. 

Miriam.  [With  a  frown.]  Must,  Bartley  ? 

Bartley.  [With  an  effort — a  mighty  effort.]  Yes, 
yes,  my  dear — really.  I  accept  everything.  I'll 
never  blame  you — never  reproach  you — not  even  in 
my  mind.     But,  obviously,  it  must  be  ended. 

Miriam.  It  is. 

Bartley.  I  must  be  sure  that  it  is. 

Miriam.  But  haven't  I  told  you 

Bartley.  My  life  wouldn't  be  bearable — I  couldn't 
live. 

Miriam.  [Reproachfully.]  Bartley! 

Bartley.  The  mere  thought  that  you  might  be 
with  him  again 

Miriam.  Be  with  him  ?  Oh,  my  [dear — need  you 
be  afraid !  Bartley,  you've  been  so  splendid  !  Don't 
spoil  it ! 

Bartley.  [Looking  steadily  at  her.]  After  all,  you 
know — after  all — you've  only  given  me  words — words 
that  mean  nothing — unless  you  prove  them. 

Miriam.  [Proudly.]  My  having  spoken  them — 
proves  them  1 


FREEDOM  61 

Bartley.  "When  you're  not  there — before  me — 
can't  you  imagine  my  dreadful  doubts?  No,  no, 
don't  be  angry.  I'm  not  asking  much.  I've  never 
enquired,  hitherto,  where  you  went,  or  whom  you 
went  with.  I  won't  in  the  future.  Just  make  this 
little  concession.     Just  promise. 

Miriam.  [Eagerly.]  But  think  what  it  is  you're 
asking !  As  though  you  didn't  believe  me !  As 
though  I  weren't  giving  him  up  of  my  own  free  will ! 

Bartley.  [Trembling  with  suppressed  excitement.] 
Miriam,  Miriam,  you're  making  it  hard  for  me — 
harder  than  I  think  you  should.  You  don't  know 
how  nearly  I  went  under.  I'm  standing  on  tiptoe 
now,  trying  to  look — above  things.  Above — facts. 
Miriam.  Because — it's  rather  dreadful  to — speak  of — 
but — you  know — you  told  me — it's  not  broken  off — 
yet. 

Miriam,  I  believed  that  I  loved  him — and  found 
that  I  didn't — but  only  loved  you !  Isn't  that 
enough  ?  Surely,  surely,  you  can  be  satisfied — with 
that! 

Bartley.  [  With  an  intense  fierceness  and  passion  he 
can  only  partially  control.]  When  was  the — last  time 
— you  met  ? 

Miriam.  [With  a  scornfvl  shrug.]  I've  forgotten. 
And  what  does  it  matter  ? 

Bartley.  [With  a  vindictive  glance  at  her.]  "Well, 
you  see — it  does — to  me.  You  were  prevented,  you 
said,  by  some  sort  of — prudishness.  .  .  ,  That  word 
stuck  in  my  throat.    So  I'll  tell  him  myself. 


62  FREEDOM 

Miriam.  [Angrily.]  You! 

Bartlky.  [N'odding.]  Yes,  I.  ...  Oh,  perfectly 
quietly — don't  be  afraid — ^just  as  we're  talking  now. 
Merely  that  you've  —  promised  —  never  to  see  him 
again. 

Miriam.  [Excitedly,  as  she  rises]  Bartley ! 

Bartlet.  [Rising  too.]  I  must  insist  on  that. 
Keally  I  must. 

Miriam.  There's  not  the  least  reason.  I'll  tell  him 
myself. 

Bartley,  No.     I  will. 

Miriam.  [Feverishly.]  It's  a  matter  for  me — only 
me.  I'll  tell  him — when  I  want  to.  And  I'll  see 
him — whenever  I  want  to ! 

Bartley.  [Doggedly,  shaking  his  head.]  No.  You 
must  promise. 

Miriam.  Think  what  a  position  you'd  be  putting 
me  in !     As  though  I'd  done  something  wrong  ! 

Bartley.  And  haven't  you  ? 

Miriam.  No  I  I  was  free  to  do  what  I  liked — I 
am  still — I  must  feel  that  I'm  free !  And  I  can't 
look  at  it  like  that !     Don't  put  it  like  that ! 

Bartley.  [Excitedly,  beginniiig  to  lose  control.] 
Never  mind  the  way  I  put  it !  The  words  that  I 
use !     Just  do  it — for  me ! 

Miriam.  You've  no  right  to  ask  it ! 

Bartley.  God  in  Heaven,  I  haven't  the  right ! 

Miriam.  I  couldn't  respect  myself  for  an  in- 
stant  

Bartley.  Never  mind  yourself — think  of  me  1 


FREEDOM  63 

Miriam.  I  think  of  you  when  I  think  of  myself — 
I  think  of  our  future  ! 

Bartlbt.  [Grinding  his  teeth.]  You  know,  there 
are  limits.     Don't  try  me  too  far. 

Miriam.  [With  a  cry.]  I  see  what  it  is  !  You  don't 
believe  me ! 

Bartley.  No,  no,  I  don't. 

Miriam.  When  I've  told  you  that,  in  the  world, 
only  you 

Bartley.  All  I  do  believe  is — that  the  last  time  you 
met — and  who  knows,  perhaps  the  next  time 

Miriam.  [Passionately.]  Very  well  then — very  well ! 
These  are  matters  for  me !  I  belong  to  myself  !  I 
am  free ! 

Bartley.  Precisely.  So  I  am  sorry  if  it  hurts 
your  respect — your  quaint  self-respect — but  you'll 
do  what  you're  told,  you  hear  ?     You'll  obey ! 

Miriam.  [Dejlantly.]  I  will  not ! 

Bartley.  [Moving  threateningly  towards  her.]  But 
I  tell  you  you  will ! 

Miriam.  All  that's  truest  and  best  in  me 

Bartley.  [Jeering  loudly!]  Truest  and  best !  Oh, 
listen  to  her !  She  has  been  this  man's  mistress, 
and  talks  of  what's  best !  Tells  me  she  loves  me — so 
thinks  I'll  consent,  and  won't  mind  ?  So  thafs  what 
you've  thought  of  me  ?  "Well,  you've  been  wrong — 
I'm  not  that  sort  at  all.  And  you'll  never  see  this 
creature  again — do  you  hear  ? 

Miriam.  [Retreating  in  alarm!]  Bartley,  Bartley, 
don't  get  so  wild 


64  FREEDOM 

Bartley.  [Clutching  her  round  the  throat.]  And  as 
for  your  Freedom — to  Hell  with  your  freedom — if 
that's  where  it  leads  you !  You're  my  wife — and  I'll 
have  no  other  man  near !     And  you'll  swear  to  me — 

you  who  never  tell  lies — you'll  swear 

Miriam.  [Clutching    his    hands.]    Bartley — you're 

hurting  me 

Bartley.  [In  mad  fury.]  Damn  you !  Swear  ! 
Miriam.  [Gasping.]  Bartley ! 
Bartley.  [His  fingers  tightening  round  her  throat.] 
You  won't — eh — you  won't  ?  I'm  to  wallow,  am  I  ? 
Lie  in  the  mud,  for  him  to  walk  over  ?  Yes,  yes,  I 
see — that's  very  pretty.  Well,  wait  a  bit,  wait — 
we'll  see  about  that.  .  .  . 

[His  grasp  round  her  neck  tightens — he  is 
absolutely  blind  with  fury — she  gives  a 
wild  scream.  He  unclasps  his  fingers,  and 
lets  her  go — she  sinks  on  to  her  knees.  He 
stares  wildly  at  her  for  an  instant — then 
rushes  out  of  the  room.  She  rises  slowly — 
the  hall-door  is  heard  to  bang.  She  runs 
to  the  window,  puts  her  head  out,  and  calls 
'•  Bartley,  Bartley  ! " — then  she  checks 
herself,  and  comes  back  into  the  room^ 
haggard  and  dishevelled. 

THE   CTTRTAIN  FALLS   SLOWLY 


ACT  III 

Bartlet  Chambers's  private  room  at  the  officet  of 
"  Manhood."  The  walls  are  distempered  and  bare  ; 
everything  about  the  place  is  of  the  simplest,  and 
there  are  practically  only  the  barest  necessities.  In 
the  centre  of  the  back  wall,  facing  the  spectator,  is  a 
glass  door,  with  an  inscription  outside,  "  Man- 
"aooD.  Mr.  Bartlbt  Ohambbrs.  Private." 
This  door  only  opens  from  within,  and  leads  to 
a  passage.  The  wall  slopes  to  the  right ;  in  the 
middle  of  it  is  another  door,  open  at  present,  which 
leads  to  the  office,  part  of  which,  containing  a 
table  or  two,  chairs  and  so  forth,  is  visible.  In 
Bartlby's  room,  at  the  back,  in  the  angle  formed 
by  the  walls,  is  an  oldfashioned  washstand, 
with  jug  and  basin  inside,  which,  when  dosed, 
looks  like  a  writing-desk.  It  is  closed  now. 
Against  the  wall  there  are  cupboards,  a  couple  of 
shelves  with  books  of  reference,  a  series  of  files. 
To  the  left  there  is  a  table,  Bartlby's  table,  covered 
with  papers  and  manuscripts  under  weights  ;  also 
two  or  three  letter-baskets,  all  very  neat  and  tidy. 
Behind  this  table,  a  revolving  chair,  an  arm-chair 
immediately  to  the  right  of  that,  and,  beyond,  set  a 
little  aslant,  a  horsehair  sofa.  Against  the  right 
wall,  and  parallel  with  it,  another  table  with 
65  B 


66  FREEDOM 

chairs.  A  shabby  carpet  covers  the  floor  ;  there  is 
a  rug  under  Baktley's  chair.  On  the  left  wall 
are  three  rather  narrow  windows,  dingy,  and  not 
very  clean,  and  a  skylight  in  the  sloping  roof. 
When  the  curtain  rises,  Toby  is  sitting  at  the  table  to  the 
right,  going  over  a  brief  and  making  notes  on  the 
margin  with  his  fountain  pen.  Balderton,  a/n 
elderly  clerk,  is  busily  writing  at  a  table  in  the 
outer  office.  A  door  is  heard,  to  open  and  close. 
Balderton  jumps  up,  and  is  heard  off,  talking  to 
Rutherford. 

Rutherford.    [Off."]    Mr.  Chambers  not  yet  come  ? 

Balderton.  [Off."]  No,  sir.  Not  yet.  Mrs. 
Chambers  has  rung  up  two  or  three  times,  sir. 

Rutherford.  [Off.']  Ah. 

Balderton.  [Off,  anxiously.]  Anything  wrong, 
sir? 

Toby.  [Shouting,  he  had  looked  up  the  m^oment  he 
had  heard  Rutherford's  voice."]  Rutherford ! 

Rutherford.  Hullo !  [He  comes  in."] 

Toby.  Shut  the  door.  I  say,  no  need  to  tell 
Balderton. 

Rutherford.  [Who  has  closed  the  door,  and  gone 
eagerly  to  Toby].  I  wasn't.     Any  news  of  Bai  tley  ? 

Toby.  He  rang  me  up  half  an  hour  ago,  asking  me 
to  come  here. 

Rutherford.  Rang  you  up — from  where  ? 

Toby.  I  don't  know.     I've  told  Miriam,  of  course. 

Rutherford.  She  thought   he   might   have   been 


FREEDOM  67 

with  me.  [ffe  drops  into  a  chair.}  I  could  cut  my 
tongue  out  i 

Toby.    That    infernal    drink    of   yours.      But  I 
suppose  it  was  bound  to  get  known,  sooner  or  later. 
Rutherford.  [Anxioitsly.']  Toby — what  will  he  do  ? 
Toby.  /  don't  know.    Don't  let's  talk  about  it.  [Ife 
turns  to  his  brief.}  You'll  excuse  me,  won't  you  ? 

[There  is  a  moment's  silence  ;  he  reads  through 
his  hHef  again. 
Rutherford.    [Fidgeting.}    I     say,    Toby — what 
will  he  do  ? 

Toby.    [Fretfully,  without  looking  up.'\    How   the 
blazes  should  /  know  ? 

[Heavy  footsteps  are  heard  in  the  corridor  out- 
side ;  a  Tcey  is  inserted  in  the  lock  of  the 
glass  door,  and  Bartley  comes  in.  He  is 
still  in  his  evening  clothes,  but  his  overcoat 
is  buttoned  to  his  chin,  and  he  wears  an  old 
soft  hat.  He  is  unshaved,  and  looks 
haggard  and  worn.  Toby  and  Ruther- 
ford both  jump  up. 
Bartley.  [With  a  frown  at  seeing  Rutherford.] 

Oh 

Rutherford.  [Eagerly,  a>8  he  goes  to  him.]  I  say, 

Bartley 

Bartley.  [  Waving  him  away.}  Don't.     I  want  to 
speak  to  Toby. 

Rutherford.  Do  let  me  tell  you 

Bartley.  Look  here — you  marry  Fanny. 
Rutherford.  [Staring  at  him,}  Marry  Fanny  | 


68  FREEDOM 

Baetlet.  [Ifodding.]  Yes. 

Rutherford.  [Energeiiccdly."]  I'm  damned  if  I  do ! 

Bartlet.  [With  a  grim  chitckle.]  He's  damned  if  he 

does.     All  right — then  just  ask  Balderton  to  ring  up 

my  house,  and  tell   Parkes  to  bring  me  up  some 

clothes,  will  you  ? 

Rutherford.   Yes.      But,   Bartley,    where  have 

you 

Bartley.  [Irritably.]  Oh,  run  along,  do,  like  a 
good  chap.  And  tell  Balderton,  too,  that  I'm  out  to 
every  one. 

[Rutherford  goes  [into  the  outer  office,  and 
shuts  the  door.     Bartlet  takes  off  his  hat 
and   ov£rcoat,   and   throws   them  on  to  a 
chair  ;  then  takes  off  his  coat,  his  collar  and 
tie,  opens  the  washstand,  pours  water  into 
the  basin,  and  plunges  his  head  in.     He 
keeps  it  there  for  two  or  three  seconds — 
then  comes  out,  gives  himself  a  shake,  opens 
a  drawer,  takes  out  a  towel,  and  proceeds  to 
dry  himself. 
Bartlet.  Br-r-r-r — that's  good. 
ToBT.  [Who  has  been  standing  quietly,  looking  at 
him.]  Where  have  you  been  ? 

Bartlet.  [Carelessly^  Oh,  walking  about — just 
walking  about.  [He  gets  out  a  brush,  and  brushes  his 
hair,  standing  in  front  of  the  little  mirror  in  the  cover 
of  the  washstand.]  You've  heard  ? 

ToBT.  Agnes  and  I  were  with  her  ever  since  three. 
She  was  in  a  dreadful  state — wild  with  anxiety. 


FREEDOM  69 

Baetley.  [Indifferentli/.]  Ah. 

{Ee  starts  washing  his  hands. 

Toby.  I  rang  her  up,  as  soon  as  I  heard  from 
you. 

Baetley.  That's  all  right. 

Toby.  What  have  you  been  doing  ? 

Baetley.  [Drying  his  hands.]  I  told  you — walking 
about — just  walking  about.  Fell  asleep  in  a  field 
somewhere — got  turned  off,  and  fell  asleep  somewhere 
else.  Didn't  wake  till  eleven.  Had  quite  a  long 
sleep.  [He  has  gone  to  his  overcoat,  and  produces  a 
parcel,  which  he  unties — it  contains  a  collar  and  tie  ;  he 
proceeds  to  put  them  on,  standing  in  front  of  the 
mirror.]  A  pretty  proceeding  for  a  respectable  man, 
eh? 

Toby.  But  what  possessed  you  to  bolt  out  of  the 
house  like  that  ? 

Baetley.  [Turning,  and  looking  at  him.]  Didn't 
she  tell  you  ? 

Toby.  No. 

Baetley.  [Slowly.]  No  man  ever  came  nearer 
killing  a  woman  than  I  did  last  night,  Toby. 

Toby.  [Aghast.]  What ! 

Baetley.  I  had  my  fingers  round  her  throat — and 
my  one  desire  was  to  kill,  [ffe  turns  to  the  mirror 
again,  and  adjusts  his  tie.]  Just  as  well  I  cleared  out, 
don't  you  think  ?  [He  goes  to  a  cupboard,  takes  out  his 
office-jacket,  puts  it  on,  and  buttons  it.]  So.  I  look  a 
little  more — conventional — now — or  shall,  at  least, 
when  I'm  shaved.  [He  passes  his  hand  over  his  chin, 


70  FREEDOM 

as  he  looks  into  the  mirror.]  The  tie's  not  up  to 
much.     A  bit  gaudy.     The  cabman  bought  that. 

Toby.  [With  an  impulsive  movement  towards  him.] 
Bartley 

Hartley.  [With  a  nervoios  gesture.]  Wait — wait — 
don't  you  do  the  talking — let  me.  [He  goes  to  his  table, 
a/nd  sits  in  his  chair  at  the  hack  of  it^  Good  of  you  to 
come,  Toby. 

Toby,  [AJfectionately,  as  he  drops  into  the  chair  hy 
his  side.]  My  dear  fellow 

Bartley.  [Stopping  him  again.]  Now  tell  me — 
how  does  one  set  about  the  divorce  business  ? 

Toby.  [Raising  his  eyebrows.]  Divorce  ? 

Hartley.  [With  a  shrug.]  What  else?  One  always 
reads  in  the  papers  that  the  wife  left  the  house. 
Well — supposing  she  doesn't — or  won't  ?  She  prob- 
ably won't.     I  can't  turn  her  out — eh  ? 

Toby.  But — but — before  we  go  into  that 

Bartley.  [Impatiently.]  But  we  must  go  into  that. 
It's  precisely  for  that  I've  sent  for  you.  I  want  to 
start  proceedings  at  once — well — there  is  the  difficulty. 
Where's  she  to  go  to  ? 

Toby.  [Earnestly.]  I  think  divorce  is  quite  out  of 
the  question,  Bartley. 

Bartley.  [Restlessly.]  I  can't  help  what  you  think 
— I  don't  care  what  you  think!  Forgive  me,  old 
chap — I  don't  mean  that  unkindly.  But  you're  just 
my  lawyer  now,  you  know,  and  mustn't 

Toby.  I  think  you  might  let  me 

Bartley.  No,  no,  I  won't.     Quite  useless,  really. 


FREEDOM  71 

Toby.  [Crossing  his  legs.]  Yoii  told  me  once  before 
I  was  only  your  lawyer — and  wouldn't  listen.  It 
didn't  turn  out  well. 

Bartley.  What  do  you  mean? 

Toby.  When  you  shipped  your  brother  off  to 
Australia. 

Bartley.  [Impatienili/.]  My  brother !  He  had 
robbed  and  stolen !  What  has  that  to  do  with  us  now  ? 

Toby.  He  was  only  a  boy.  You  high-principled 
men  haven't  much  pity. 

Bartley.  [Angrily.]  That's  abominably  unjust — 
abominably. 

Toby.  I  don't  know.  You  were  in  one  of  your 
blind  furies  then — neither  your  mother  nor  I  could 
stop  you.     And  the  boy  became  a  mere  waster. 

Bartley.  [Getting  up  nervously,  cmd  pacing  the 
room.l  If  he'd  stopped  here,  you  don't  know — no  one 
does.  And  I  dare  say  I  was  wrong — I've  regretted 
it  often  enough — good  Heaven,  haven't  I !  But  what's 
the  sense  of  bringing  that  in?  This  is  a  different 
matter  altogether.  My  wife — do  you  understand 
that — my  wife  ! 

Toby.  [LooJcing  sympathetically  at  him.]  Yes.  It's 
dreadful — oh,  dreadful.  But  I  do  wish  you'd  let  me  say 
one  word  to  you.  [Bartley  makes  an  angry  movement.] 
No,  no — sit  down — just  a  moment.  It  commits  you 
to  nothing. 

[Bartley  mutters  sulkily,  goes  to  his  table,  and 
sits ;  he  shifts  things  restlessly  from  one 
place  to  another. 


72  FREEDOM 

Toby.  I  won't  waste  time  telling  you  how  sorry  I 
am.  But  I'm  a  lawyer,  and  see  a  good  deal.  And 
look  here— it's  rather  a  horrid  thing  to  say,  perhaps — 
but  do  you  think  very  many  women — do  you  think 
there  are  many  women — who're  what  we  call  "  faith- 
ful "  to  their  husbands  ? 

Bartley.  \FurioMsly^  as  he  bangs  his  fist  on  the 
table.]  Whatl!! 

Toby.  \^Almost  apologetically.]  It  sounds  beastly,  of 
course.  But  I  mean  it.  A  good  number  keep  on 
the  track.  There  are  some  who've  never  been  tempted. 
But  then — let's  be  honest — those  are  the  dull  ones. 
And  the  others,  who  do  run  straight — they've  been 
afraid  to,  that's  all.  They've  wanted  to,  often  enough. 
They've  just  been  afraid. 

Bartlby.  [With indigncmt  scorn,]  That's  your  man- 
of-the-world  talk.  Don't  give  it  to  me— it's  no  use  to 
me.     And  I  don't  believe  it,  and  never  will. 

ToBT.  And  yet  there's  some  sense  in  it.  I'm  not 
defending  them,  mind  you. 

Bartlby.  In  any  event  it  doesn't  apply.  Last 
night  I  swallowed  everything — I  did — and  you  don't 
know  the  things  she  said  to  me  last  night !  I  sat 
there,  and  swallowed  them.  All  I  asked  was  that  she 
should  give  this  man  up.     She  refused. 

Toby.  Come,  come,  let's  be  accurate.  You  told  her 
she  must  never  see  him  again. 

Bartlby.  And  wouldn't  you,  eh — wouldn't  you? 
Just  tell  me  what  you  would  have  done  ? 

Toby.  I'm  not  married.  I've  been  afraid  to,  perhaps. 


FREEDOM  73 

But — Bartley,  there's  this.     You've  had  your  fling — 
other  men's  wives 

B/,ETLEY,  Not  since  I've  been  married — no  man 
could  have  run  straighter!  Well — that's  enough* 
isn't  it  ?  You've  had  your  say — and  pretty  poor  stuff 
it  was.  Now  the  only  question  is — will  you  act  for 
me  in  the  divorce  ? 

Toby.  [Shortly.]  No. 

Bartley.  [Wiih  a  shrug ^  Yery  well,  then — I'll  get 
some  one  else.     Whom  do  you  recommend? 

Toby.  There's  no  lack  of  lawyers.  But  I  don't  want 
you  to  think  I've  been  telling  her  she  was  right.  Fact 
is,  this  freedom  business  went  to  her  head.  We  edu- 
cate women,  and  expect  them  to  sew  tapestry.  They 
won't. 

Bartley.  [GWmZy.]  Isn't  there  just  the  least  bit 
of  difference  between  sewing  tapestry — and  taking  a 
lover  ? 

Toby.  0/cowrse  there's  a  difference  !  And  I've  told 
you  I'm  not  defending  her.  But  you've  praised  Agnes 
up  to  the  skies — Agnes,  with  her  fatherless  baby! 
Would  the  parsons  be  less  severe  on  her  than  on 
Miriam  ? 

Bartley.  Agnes  was  free  to  do  what  she  liked — 
she  wasn't  married.  [He  rises.]  Very  well — I  see 
you're  no  use  to  me,  Toby. 

[He  moves  away. 

Toby.  [Desperately,  as  he  jumps  up  and  goes  after 
him.]  She  has  been  a  most  admirable  wife  I  No 
mother  could  have  been  more  devoted  I 


74  FREEDOM 

Baetley.  [Bitterly.]  The  "  admirable  wife  "  is  good. 
I  see  the  humour  of  it. 

Toby.  [Eagerly  and  volubly.']  It's  we  who've  been 
filling  them  up  with  their  rights,  and  all  that,  in  the 
paper.  Here,  in  this  very  room !  And  what  are 
their  rights,  and  what  aren't  they  ?  /  don't  know — 
no  one  does.  At  any  rate,  they've  never  had  them 
since  the  world  began.  It's  we  men  who  laid  down 
what  honour  stood  for — and  because  they  were  silent, 
we  thought  they  consented.  But  did  they,  ever  I 
Most  women  lie  when  their  husbands  find  out — they 
all  lie — we  force  them  to  lie.  You  want  to  divorce 
Miriam — because  she— didn't ! 

Bartley.  No — she  certainly  did  not.  She  told  me, 
in  so  many  words,  that  it  didn't  matter !  [He  gives 
himself  a  little  shake,  and  goes  on,  more  calmly  and  a 
little  wearily.]  Toby,  the  things  you've  been  saying 
don't  help.  And  they  are  none  of  them  true — not 
one.  It's  not  this  that  the  paper's  been  working  for 
— we  never  said  men  should  be  sheep !  But  I  don't 
want  to  argue — and  won't.  No,  no,  don't  say  any 
more !  I'll  tell  you  about  the  other  things  you  must 
do  for  me,  since  you  won't  help  me  in  the  divorce. 

[The  door  to  the  right  has  opened,  and  Miriam 
has  come  in,  while  he  was  speaking  his  last 
sentence.  She  stops,  and  looks  at  him.  She 
also  is  haggard  and  worn,  but  her  manner  is 
perfectly  calm,  and  betrays  not  the  least 
sign  of  emotion. 
Bartley.  [With  a  frown,  as  he  sees  her.]  Oh 


FREEDOM  75 

Toby.  [Going  eagerly  to  her.]  Miriam 

Miriam.  [Quietly,  with  her  eyes  on  Babtley.] 
Divorce  ? 

Toby.  Yes,  that's  what  he  wants. 
Miriam.  [To  Bartley.]  Where  have  you  been,  all 
night  ? 

Bartley.  [Fidgeting.]  Oh,  that  doesn't  matter.  Look 
here,  I'd  rather  you  didn't  stop,  if  you  don't  mind. 

Miriam.  [Still  in  the  same  quiet  tone.]  I  want  to 
speak  to  you,  Bartley. 

Toby.  [Turning  to  the  glass  door.]  Of  course.  And 
I'll  leave  you. 

Bartley.  [Stopping  him.]  ISTo,  no,  I  won't  have 
that.  If  I  must,  I  must — though  I  don't  know  why — 
but,  anyhow,  there's  not  the  least  reason  why  you 
shouldn't  be  here. 

Toby.  [Eeleasing  himself.]  Oh,  do  be  sensible ! 
This  is  quite  childish.  I'll  go  to  the  office,  see  to  a 
thing  or  two,  and  come  back  in  an  hour.  And,  if 
you're  still  wanting  a  divorce,  I'll  tell  you  what  you 
have  to  do. 

[He  shakes  Bartley  of,  and  goes,  through  the 
glass  door.  Bartley  is  very  vexed — he 
shrugs  his  shoulders,  m^uttering,  "  If  I  am 
still !  Too  ridiculous !  "  returns  to  his 
table,  and  sits.  Miriam  sits  on  the  so/a. 
There  is  silence  for  a  moment.  She  hasher 
eyes  steadily  fixed  on  Bartley,  who  is 
fidgeting  with  the  papers  before  him,  and 
ca/refully  avoids  looking  at  her. 


76  FREEDOM 

MiBiAM.  [Quietly.]  You  really  want  to  divorce 
me? 

Bartlet.  Of  course,  of  course.  That's  the  only 
thing  to  do. 

Miriam.  I  see.  .  .  .  You  came  very  near  strangling 
me  last  night. 

Baetley.  [Mutteinng.]  I'm  dreadfully  sorry.  And 
ashamed,  of  course. 

Miriam.  Did  you  really  think  that  what  I  had 
done  deserved  that  ? 

Bartley.  I  didn't  think  at  all.  I  was  completely 
off  my  head. 

Miriam.  Or  that  it  deserves — divorce  ? 

Bartley.  That's  what  the  law  was  made  for — isn't 
it  ?  And  this  is  precisely  a  case.  And  anyhow,  it's 
no  good  talking  about  it.  The  point  is — what  are 
we  to  do  ? 

Miriam.  Do? 

Bartley.  I  mean,  one  of  us  must  go  away.  "We 
can't  possibly  live  under  the  same  roof,  can  we,  while 
proceedings  are  pending  ? 

Miriam.  You'd  like  me  to  go  ? 

Bartley.  I  think  that  would  be  best.  I'd  make 
everything  comfortable  for  you,  of  course. 

Miriam.  Thank  you.     Where  should  I  go  ? 

Bartley.  I  don't  know — that's  just  the  difficulty. 
Your  mother  ? 

Miriam.  [Shaking  her  head.]  No.  But  I  might 
stay  with  Agnes. 

Bartley.  [Eagerly,  as  he  looks  at  her  for  the  first 


FREEDOM  77 

time.]   That's  a  splendid   idea.      To-day,  don't   you 
think  ? 

MiBiAM.  To-day? 

Bartlet.  Well,  if  you  wouldn't  mind. — "What's 
that  you're  wearing  round  your  neck? 

Miriam.  There  was  a  mark. 

Bartley.  Oh,  I'm  dreadfully  sorry. 

Miriam.  It  will  soon  go.  You'd  like  me  to- 
day  

Bartley.  That  seems  the  simplest  thing,  really. 

Miriam.  Perhaps.  You  don't  mind,  of  course, 
taking  me  from  my  children  ? 

Bartley.  We  can't  help  that,  can  we?  But  you 
shall  see  them,  whenever  you  want  to. 

Miriam.  Just  now  and  again,  furtively,  when 
you're  not  in  the  house  ? 

Bartley.  Whenever  you  want  to — whenever  you 
want  to. 

Miriam.  And  if  you  re-married  ? 

Bartley.  Oh,  that  isn't  likely  ! 

Miriam.  But  if  you  did — another  woman  would 
mother  my  babies  ? 

Bartley.  [Restlessly,  as  he  fdgets  with  his  pajyers 
again.]  All  that,  as  I've  said,  can't  be  helped.  You 
should  have  thought  about  that,  before.  But  I'll 
never  re-marry — never. 

Miriam.  [In  the  same  quiet,  steady  voice,  that  never 
va/ries^  You  remember  when  Daphne  was  bom  ? 

[Bartley  merely  gives  a  shrug,  hut  doesn't 
answer,  and  turns  to  his  pajiers. 


78  FREEDOM 

Miriam,  The  doctors  gave  me  up,  didn't  they  ? 

Baetley.  \Fretfulli/.]  Why  harrow  ourselves — with 
reminiscences  ? 

Miriam.  No.  All  I  want  to  remind  you  is — that 
I  very  nearly  died  for  you — then. 

Bartley.  [More  and  more  irritahlyi\  It  was  a 
dreadful  time — terrible.  But  that's  in  the  past. 
Why  talk  of  the  past  ? 

Miriam.  For  three  days  and  nights  you  sat  by  my 
bedside. 

[Baetley   takes  up  a  pencil  fretfullyj  and 
makes  a  note  on  a  mamcscript. 

Miriam.  You  sat  there,  holding  my  hand.  I 
thought  I  was  dying — I  was  ready  to  die.  I  had 
brought  your  child  into  the  world. 

Bartley.  [Flinging  the  pencil  downl]  I  can't  imagine 
why  you  recall  these  things.  They're  over  and  done 
with.     Why  speak  of  them  now  ? 

Miriam.  Merely  because  I  want  to  ask — whether 
those  days  and  nights  don't  count  ? 

Bartley.  [Banging  his  fist  on  the  table."]  Count ! 
In  Heaven's  name — for  what  ? 

Miriam.  To-day  you  propose  to  take  me  away  from 
my  children. 

Bartley.  [Dropping  his  papers,  and  bending  for- 
ward^ You  know,  this  isn't  fair.  And  there's  no 
sense  in  it.  Do  you  think — after  what  happened 
last  night — that  life  is  possible  for  us — on  your  term* 
under  your  conditions  ? 

Miriam.  No.     Evidently  it  is  not. 


FREEDOM  79 

Bartlbt.  Very  well,  then.  Why  drag  up  the 
past? 

Miriam.  Because — it  doesn't  seem  to  have  occurred 
to  you — that  I  am  fond  of  my  children. 

Bartley.  [Banging  the  table  again,  and  springing 
to  his  feet. ^  Look  here,  so  am  I.  And  they're  mine, 
as  much  as  yours.  You  had  the  pain  and  the  suffer- 
ing, as  you  brought  them  into  the  world — but  I,  as  I 
sat  there,  listening  to  every  sound — I  suffered  as 
much  as  you  did — more,  perhaps,  because  it  was  you 
who  were  bearing  the  pain.  And  you  forgot  your 
children  when  you  fell  in  love — with  him  1 

Miriam.  [Still  with  the  same  unruffled  calm.l  I 
didn't  fall  in  love  with  him. 

Bartley.  Enough,  at  least,  to  give  yourself  to 
him ! 

Miriam.  Yes. 

Bartley.  [Violently  as  he  faces  her.]  Very  well 
then — very  well — is  there  any  more  to  be  said  ? 

Miriam.  Bartley,  do  you  think  we  women  are 
stocks  and  stones  ?  Do  you  think  we,  like  you,  have 
no  sudden  weakness,  or  impulse  ?  Does  that  make 
us  vile,  unfit  to  look  after  our  children — does  it  mean 
we  can't  love  our  husband  ? 

Bartley.  Yes,  it  does — that's  just  what  it  does 
mean  !     And  supposing — oh,  I  can't  say  it ! 

[ffe  writhes,  and  turns  away. 

Miriam.  [Unjiinchingly.']  You  mean,  if  I'd  had  a 
child  by  him  ? 

Bartley.  [Breathing  hard.]  Yes  ! 


80  FREEDOM 

Miriam.  I  didn't  want  a  child  by  him.  But — if  I 
had — couldn't  you  have  loved  it — "because  it  wag 
mine? 

Babtlit.  {Breaking  away."]  My  God !     No  I     No  1 

Miriam.  Its  being  mine  would  have  made  no 
difference  ? 

Bartlky.  None !     Absolutely  none ! 

Miriam.  "Well,  it  would  have,  to  me.  The  fact  of 
its  being  your  child — ^the  child  of  the  man  I  loved. 
And  loved,  it  seems,  with  a  greater  and  finer  love 
than  you  ever  felt  for  me. 

Bartley.  [Fiercely,  at  he  faces  her  again.]  That's 
a  lie,  and  you  know  it !  No  man  has  ever  loved  a 
woman  more  than  I  did  you.  Your  treachery — 
come,  come,  let  us  call  it  by  its  name — has  been  vile 
and  detestable.  And  it  makes  no  di£ference,  however 
you  gloss  it  over.  All  the  things  you've  said  make 
no  difference.  You  want  me  to  believe  in  your  love 
for  me,  and  to  be  free  to  give  yourself  to  another 
man.  I  nearly  killed  you  for  that  last  night — and 
I'm  not  at  all  sure  that  you  didn't  deterve  to  be 
killed.  I've  always  wanted  women  to  be  free — and 
I  do  still — and  by  Heaven  that's  why  the  paper  shall 
go  on  !  But  this  sort  of  thing  I've  kicked  out — sent 
it  round  to  the  dustbin — as  I  do  to-day.  And  when 
a  woman  believes  in  it,  and  advocates  it — then  she's 
not  fit  to  bring  up  children — and  deserves  to  be 
divorced  and  discarded — as  I  divorce  and  discard 
you! 

Miriam.  [Who  has    listened    quite    unmoved,   the 


FREEDOM  81 

emotion  fading  out  of  her  face.]  Very  well — you 
divorce  and  discard  me.  What  happens  then  ? — I 
mean,  to  me  ? 

Bartley.  [Sulkily,  aa  he  goes  back  to  his  table,  and 
sits.]  Eve  can  divorce  Laurence — and  you  can  marry 
him. 

MiBiAM.  [After  an  amazed  glance  at  him.]  You 
want  me  to  marry  Laurence  ? 

Bartley.  [Taking  up  a  bundle  of  documents  and 
looking  at  them.]  That's  the  thing  that's  usually  done. 

Miriam.  [Nodding^  I  see. 

Bartley.  And  as  you  and  he  apparently  think 
alike  on  these  matters,  you'll  have  no  difficulty  with 
him. 

Miriam.  Well,  of  course,  that  will  be  very  pleasant 
and  comfortable.  And  I  suppose  you'll  be  quite 
generous — as  regards  an  allowance,  and  all  that  ? 

Bartlet.  [Still  fiddling  about  with  hit  papers.] 
Toby  can  act  for  you,  as  he  won't  for  me. 

Miriam.  He  won't  ? 

Bartley.  No. 

Miriam.  That's  a  pity.  But  I'm  sure  you'll  be 
very  generous  as  regards  the  money. 

Bartley.  That's  probably  meant  as  a  sneer.     But 

it  dotsn't  affect  me.     Not  in  the  least.     I've  told 

you,  I'll  make  everything  as  smooth  for  you  as  I  can. 

[Miriam  is  about  to  retort,  when  Balderton 

comes  in.     His  manner  is  rather  awkward 

and  constrained  as  he  goes  to  Bartley. 

Balderton.  Parkes  has  brought  your  clothes,  sir. 


8«  FREEDOM 

Bartlby.  Very  well. 

Baldeeton.  Is  there  any  message  for  him,  sir  ? 

Baetley.  No. 

Baldeeton.  Shall  I  bring  the  bag  in,  sir  ? 

Baetley.  Yes.     No.     Later. 

Baldeeton.  [With  a  little  stammering  ?hesitation.^ 
Mr.  Targill  asked  me  to  tell  you,  sir,  that  he's  in  the 
office. 

Baetley.  Mr.  Targill ! 

Baldeeton.  [Looking  a  triJU  sheepishly  at  himJ] 
Yes,  sir.  He  wants  to  know  whether  you'll  see  him 
when  you're  disengaged,  sir. 

Baetley.  [After  a  moment's  pause.]  Very  well. 
When  I  ring,  Balderton. 

Baldeeton.  Yes,  sir,  I'll  tell  him. 

[He  goes.  There  is  silence  again.  Baetley 
fidgets  with  his  papers,  evidently  waiting 
for  MiEiAM  to  go. 

MiEiAM.  You  mean  to  see  him  ? 

Baetley.  [Shortly.'\  Yes. 

Miriam.  That's  much  the  best. 

Baetley.  I  have  to  tell  him  about  the  paper. 

MiEiAM.  You  want  me  to  go  ? 

Baetley.  That  seems  more — decent. 

MiEiAM.  Why  ?  Are  you  afraid  to  speak  to  him — 
before  me  ? 

Baetley.  [Angrily.']  k.fra.\di — why  afraid?  It's  not 
that,  at  all.  And,  besides,  you  may  be  perfectly 
certain  I  shan't  say  a  word  that  doesn't  concern  the 
paper.     Or  let  him,  either. 


FREEDOM  83 

Miriam.  In  that  case  I  might  as  well  stay.  I've 
been  a  contributor  to  the  paper,  you  know — I'd  like 
to  hear  your  views.     And  after  all,  as  he's  to  be  my 

husband [Bartley  swears  under  his  breath,  and 

rings  violently.]  You'll  tell  him,  won't  you,  that  you 
mean  to  provide  for  me  ?  Because  of  course  I've 
nothing  of  my  own. 

Bartley.  You  needn't  worry  about  that. 
Miriam.  Oh  no,  I  don't.     Only  Eve  has  nothing 
either,  you  see — so  he'll  have  to  provide  for  her.  And 
it  will  make  matters  so  much  easier,  won't  it,  my 
being  a  sort  of — heiress  ? 

[Bartley  merely  shrugs  his' shoulders,  and  takes 
no  notice,  burying  himself  in  his  papers. 
Laurence  comes  in,  hurriedly  and  ner- 
vously— he  pauses  for  a  moment  on  the 
threshold,  and  seems  surprised,  and  a  little 
annoyed,  at  seeing  Miriam.  He  shuts  the 
door  and  goes  quickly  to  Bartley.  There 
is  not  the  least  trace  of  yesterday's  trucu- 
lence  about  him,  but  only,  as  it  were,  an 
eager  and  almost  bashful  friendliness. 
Miriam  has  her  back  almost  turned  to  him, 
and  doesn't  stir. 

Laurence.  [Eagerly.]  I've  come  to 

Bartley.  [Stopping  him  abruptly,  and  waving  him 
away.]  Please  sit  down — over  there.  [He  motions  to 
the  table.]  Over  there.  I  want  to  speak  to  you  about 
the  paper.  Nothing  but  the  paper.  Please  under- 
stand that.  [Laurence  hasn't  moved — he  tries  to  speak 


84  FREEDOM 

— Baetley  stops  him.]  Sit  down,  sit  down.  Don't 
let's  have  a  fuiis.  Or  a  scene.  There  was  quite 
enough  of  that  last  night.  [Laueencb  gives  a  little 
shrug y  and  goes  slowly  to  the  table — he  sits,  asfcvrfrom 
Miriam  as  he  can,  and  facing  Bartlit.]  This  is 
merely  a  business  talk.  About  the  paper.  I  want  it 
to  go  on. 

Laueinck.  [Scarcely  above  a  murmur,]  At  least 
I'm  glad  of  that. 

Bartlit.  /  go  out  of  it,  of  course. 

Laurence.  And  not  I  ? 

Bartlet.  [Shortly.]  No. 

Laueencb.  "Why? 

Baetley.  That's  my  affair,  and  we  needn't  discuss 
it.  I  turned  the  thing,  as  you  know,  into  a  small 
private  company.  There's  quite  enough  working 
capital — and  it  will  soon  be  paying  its  way.  I  hold 
nearly  all  the  shares.  I  shall  arrange  with  Toby  to 
have  these  divided  among  the  editorial  staff. 

Laurence.  Me  too  ? 

Baetley.  That  concerns  Toby.  All  that  I  ask — 
and  I  fancy  I  am  entitled  to  ask  it — is  that  you,  who 
of  course  become  editor  again 

Laueence.  [Surprised.]  I  ? 

Baetley.  You're  the  only  man  who  can  do  it.  I'm 
merely  thinking  about  the  paper.  But  I  want  it  run 
on  my  lines.  They  were  clearly  indicated  ;  you  know 
them. 

Laueence.  [Hesitating.]  But  —  if  I'm  to  be 
Editor 


FREEDOM  86 

Miriam.  [Without  turning  her  head.]  He  is  entitled 
to  ask  that,  Laurence. 

Laurence,  [After  a  moment.]  Very  w«ll.  I'll  do 
my  best. 

Bartley.  I  have  your  distinct  undertaking  ? 

Laurence.  Yes. 

Bartley.  All  right  then,  I  clear  out  of  this  room 
to-day.  Have  my  name  painted  out  of  the  door, 
taken  off  the  front  sheet.  Otherwise  let  everything 
go  on  as  before.     Yon  understand  ? 

Laurence.  Yes. 

Bartley.  [With  a  gutuv  of  dismissal.]  Yery  well. 
Then  that's  all  "we  have  to  say  to  each  other. 

[He  hat  scarcely  looked  at  Laurence  through 
all  this — now  he  definitely  turns  away,  and 
proceeds  to  sort  his  papers. 

Laurexce.  "Wait.     There's  the  money  I  owe  you. 

Bartley.  [Without  looking  rtp.]  It  was  all  in  con- 
nection with  the  paper.  And  I — apologize — for 
having  mentioned  it. 

Laurence.  [Quietly i]  You  needn't.  But  look  here 
— I've  a  reversion.  "When  an  aunt  of  mine  dies,  I 
come  into  a  couple  of  thousand.  She's  not  very  old, 
and  I  don't  want  her  to  die — but  the  thing  has  a 
value.     I'll  have  it  transferred  to.  you. 

Bartley.  [Who  has  listened  with  every  sign  of  im- 
patience.] That's  simply  ridiculous.  I  didn't  know 
what  I  was  saying  yesterday.  And  do  you  think  I 
care  a  hang  about  the  money  ? 


86  FREEDOM 

Laurence.  But  I  do.  I  care  a  very  great  deaL 
And  I  can't  allow 

Bartley.  [Irritablt/.']  Oh,  do  stop  this,  please.  I'm 
a  very  rich  man,  and  you're  a  poor  one,  and  it  would 
annoy  me  profoundly  to  take  your  reversion.  Please 
leave  it  there.  I've  withdrawn  my  remark  of  yester- 
day— so  that's  ended. 

Laurence.  But  all  the  same 

Miriam.  [Again  without  turning  her  head."]  You 
must  do  what  he  tells  you,  Laurence. 

Laurence.  [After  a  moment,  and  a  rather  displeased 
glance  at  her.]  Very  well.  I  accept.  But  it's 
generous. 

Bartley.  [Eoughly.]  Heavens  above,  I  have  no 
wish  to  be  generous.  Please  don't  imagine  that.  It's 
mere  common  sense.     So  that's  all.     Good  day. 

[JJe  plunges  himself  into  his  papers.  Thert  is 
a  moments  silence.  Laurence  gets  up 
and  turns  to  the  door — then,  impulsively, 
with  uncontrollable  eagerness  a/nd  excite- 
ment, hastens  to  Bartley. 

Laurence.  I  can't  go  like  that — I  can't.  You 
evidently  don't  intend  to  see  me  again 

Bartley.  [Grimly.]  You  may  be  quite  sure  of  that. 
I  wouldn't  have  seen  you  now,  only  I  thought  she'd 
go  if  I  did.     Well,  she  wouldn't. 

Miriam.  [Quietly.]  No— I  wouldn't.  What  have 
you  to  say,  Laurence  ? 

Laurence.  There's  nothing  I  can  say — except  that 
I  never  imagined — he'd  take  it — like  this.    [Bartley 


FREEDOM  87 

makes  a  passionate  movement.]  No,  no,  don't  be  angry. 
Look  here,  we've  been  friends 

Bartlky.  [Scornfully.]  You! 

Laurence.  Yes,  I.  I  valued  your  friendship.  I 
wouldn't  have  thrown  it  away — for  any  woman  in 
the  world. 

Miriam.  Thank  you. 

Laurence.  She  knows  it  too.  I  want  you  to  know 
it.  Of  course  everything  sounds  ghastly  when  one 
tries  to  say  it. 

Bartley.  Then  why  try  ?     Do  you  think  I  care  ? 

Laurence.  [Still  hurriedly  and  deprecatingly.]  Last 
night  I  got  angry  too.  But — when  I  came  home — 
and  heard  how  anxious  she  was 

Miriam.  [Almost  to  herself.]  I  had  visions  of  him 
lying  in  a  ditch,  with  his  throat  cut. 

Bartley.  Very  harrowing — very.  But  my  throat's 
all  right,  thank  you.  [To  Laurence.]  Well — haven't 
you  finished  ? 

Laurence.  I  was  heart-broken,  simply.  I'd  have 
given  everything  in  the  world  that  this  shouldn't 
have  happened. 

Miriam.  [Quietly.]  Don't  be  such  a  coward, 
Laurence. 

Bartley.  You  hear  what  she  says?  And  she's 
right.  Don't  be  such  a  coward.  You  knew  what 
you  were  doing.  It  pleased  you  to  take  my  wife — and 
you  took  her.  At  least  don't  bleat  about  your 
friendship  for  me. 

Laurence.  [Wearily.]    And  yet  it's    true.      The 


88  FREEDOM 

absurd    things   art  true   sometimes — this  is.      It's 
where  theories  come  to  grief.     Well — I'll  go. 

\nt  turns,  and  moves  to  the  door. 

Baktlet.  For  Heaven's  sake,  do.  And  perhaps 
she  will  too.  [He  picks  up  his  papers  again. 

Miriam.  [Quietly.]  He  means  to  divorce  me, 
Laurence. 

Laurekce.  [A  t  the  door,  turning  round.']  What ! ! ! 

Miriam.  Yes.     He  has  made  up  his  mind. 

Laurenck.  [Hurrying  excitedly  to  Bartlet.]  Bart- 
ley,  Bartley ! 

Bartley.  [Violently.]  Don't  address  me  like  that! 
And  get  out !     It's  no  business  of  yours ! 

Laurencb.  [Quite  beside  himself.]  Divorce  her  t 
Miriam  !     (Jood  Heaven — what  for  ? 

Bartley.  You'll  find  out,  later.  Don't  you  worry. 
You'll  hear. 

Laurxkox.  Do  what  you  like  with  me.  But  you 
ccmH — divorce  Miriam ! 

Bartley.  Can't  I,  though — can't  I?  We'll  see 
about  that. 

Laurence.  The  blame  is  all  mine. 

Miriam.  That's  not  true. 

Bartley.  It  doesn't  matter  whether  it's  tru«  or 
not.  It  doesn't  matter  in  the  least.  And  she  has 
told  me  everything — she  hasn't  spared  me.  The  rest 
concerns  the  lawyers. 

Laurence.  Don't  bring  them  in.  You  can't.  And 
there  are  her  children.    For  this  mere  trifle 

Bartley.  [Furiously.]  What! 


FREEDOM  89 

Laurence,  [ffumbly.]  I  beg  your  pardon.  I  didn't 
mean  that.  But  look  here — we've  discussed  all  this — 
the  position  of  women — over  and  over  again — haven't 
we  ?  You  have.  It's  not  fair  to  look  at  it  now — as 
though  we  were  ordinary  people ! 

Bartley.  I  daresay  you  aren't — or  she,  very  likely 
— but  I  am.  Oh,  quite.  And  I  do  the  ordinary 
thing.  [He  waves  his  hand  in  dismissal. 

Laurence.  [Persistentli/.]  But,  Bartley,  this  isn't 
the  ordinary  thing !     It's  wicked,  it's  monstrous  ! 

Bartley,  [Moving  things  about  on  his  table.^  I'm 
sorry  if  it  doesn't  meet  with  Mr.  Targill's  approval. 
But  we  can't  help  that — can  we  ? 

Laurence.  I'll  make  what  amends  I  can.  Run 
the  paper  ai  you  want  it — do  anything.  Be  satisfied 
with  that.     For  God's  sake,  have  pity  ! 

Bartley.  [Snarling.]  For  whom  ?  For  her  ?  She 
doesn't  want  it.     For  you  ?    Why  ? 

Laurence.  [In  despair.]  Even  you've  always  said 
in  the  paper  that  women  should  be  free  ! 

Bartley.  I  have — and  I  hope  you'll  go  on  saying 
it.  But  that  doesn't  mean  we're  all  to  turn  into  pigs. 
And  it  doesn't  help  women's  freedom  for  one  friend 
to  betray  another. 

Laurence.  I  haven't,  I  haven't !  Oh,  there  are 
things  one  can't  say,  of  course. 

Miriam.  [Quietly.]  Say  what  you  like.  I've  told 
him  the  absolute  truth. 

Laurence.  [Looking  at  her.]  If  she  really  has 

Miriam.  Oh  yes. 


90  FREEDOM 

Lauebnce.  [Turning  to  Bartlet.]  Very  well  then 
— if  you  do  know  ...  a  calamity,  of  course,  that  it 
should  be— you  and  I.  That  is  a  calamity.  But, 
otherwise — is  it  so  very  important  ?  [Bartley  howls 
at  him — he  goes  on  hurriedly.]  No,  no,  understand 
me — I  mean,  to  people  like  us.  Because,  after  all, 
we're  not  grocers,  or  stockbrokers  ! 

Baetley.  We're  men — just  as  they  are.  Men — 
you  forgot  that.  And  I'll  act  like  a  man.  You 
didn't.     You've  behaved  like  a  cur. 

Miriam.  [Almost  critically.]  That's  rather  absurd. 

Bartley.  It's  my  point  of  view.  And  I'm  not 
losing  my  temper.     I  just  want  him  to  know. 

Laurence,  [ffotly.]  That's  all  right — and  I  don't 
mind  your  saying  it — if  that's  what  you  think.  But 
whether  you're  entitled  to  think  it  is  quite  another 
matter. 

Bartley.  [Looking  defiantly  at  him.]  A  cur.  A 
mere,  pitiful  cur. 

Laurence.  Don't  talk  such  nonsense.  She  wanted 
a  lover,  and  I  chanced  to  be  there.  That's  the  whole 
business. 

Bartley.  [Jumping  up  and  yelling.]  You  black- 
guard !     Foul  blackguard ! 

Laurence.  [Doggedly!]  I'm  nothing  of  the  sort. 
You'd  have  done  just  the  same.  And  it's  all  too 
stupid.  You  haven't  bought  her — you  don't  lead  her 
about  on  a  string ! 

Baetlby.  [With  a  violent  movement,  dropping  the 


FREEDOM  91 

papers  he  held  in  hit  hand,  and  rushing  round  the 
iable.'\  No,  no,  I  won't  stand  that ! 

[Miriam  rises,  goes  to  the  edge  of  the  table, 
and  intercepts  him. 

Miriam.  [Soothingly.']  Sit  down,  Bartley — sit  down. 
That  sort  of  thing  doesn't  help.  Why  can't  you  talk 
quietly,  without  calling  each  other  names?  And 
you  don't  want  Balderton  to  hear.  Besides,  I'm 
not  Helen  of  Troy — there's  no  need  for  blood- 
shed. 

Bartley.  [Still  trembling  with  excitement.]  I  want 
him  to  go.     If  he  doesn't 

Miriam.  Just  one  moment.  Be  reasonable — please 
— just  one  moment.  [Bartley  drops  exhaustedly  into 
his  chair,  muttering  furiously  to  himself]  And  you 
shouldn't  say  such  things,  Laurence.  Of  course  they 
provoke  him. 

Laurence.  [Sulkily;  he  had  merely  shrugged  his 
shoulders  at  Bartley's  outburst.]  I'd  no  wish  to  do 
that.  But  look  how  he's  treating  me  !  And,  after 
all,  what  have  I  done  ? 

Bartley.  Let  him  go,  I  say !     Let  him  go  1 

Miriam.  [Soothingly.]  He  shall,  in  a  minute. 
Laurence,  Bartley  suggests  that  Eve  should  divorce 
you,  and  that  you  should  marry  me. 

Laurence.  [Completely  staggered.]  What  I !  I 

Miriam.  [Ifodding.]  Yes.  Eve  will  do  anything 
you  tell  her,  you  know.  And  Bartley's  quite  prepared 


9JE  FREEDOM 

to  make  me  a  handsome  allowance.     [She  tum»  to 
Am.]  Aren't  you  ? 

[Bartlet    buries    himself  feverishly  in  his 
papers  and  takes  no  notice. 

Laurewck.  [Fretfully.]  This  is  ridiculous. 

MiKiAif.  [Pleasantly.]  Why,  Laurence — why? 
Bartley'a  very  anxious  that  ererything  should  pa«s 
oflf  pleasantly.  You'll  be  the  co-respondent — and 
nice  co-re«pondents  always  marry  the  lady.  Bartley'd 
like  it.  He  doesn't  make  it  a  condition — but  he'd  like 
it.     [She  turns  to  him.]  Wouldn't  you  ? 

Bartlsy.  [Without  looking  up.]  It's  a  matter  for 
you  both.     Not  necessary  to  discuss  it  before  me. 

Miriam.  [Mildly.]  Oh,  Bartley — why  not?  It's 
a  kind  of  business  arrangement,  isn't  it?  Well, 
Laurence,  what  do  you  say  ? 

Laurxnci.  [Angrily,  as  he  shifts  from  one  foot  to 
the  other.]  I  say  it's  insane.  Why  should  Eve  divorce 
me  ?  She  doesn't  want  to — /  don't  want  her  to.  It 
wouldn't  help  matters  in  the  least.  And  I  won't 
hear  of  it. 

Miriam.  [Thoughtfully!]  How  very  disappointing. 
It  looks  aa  though  I  should  be  left  in  the  cold.  I'm 
afraid  you're  not  as  rigid  a  moralist  as  Bartley  is, 
Laurence. 

liATTREfCE.  We  don't  care  about  each  other,  you 
and  I.  We've  never  pre^nded  to.  You  don't  love 
me! 

Miriam.  No,  no,  of  course  not — but  since  he  wishes 
it.    Won't  you  do  this  little  thing  for  him  ? 


FREEDOM  9S 

Laurenci.  Why  the  devil  should  h«  wish  it? 
Since  it's  him  you  love  ! 

MiBiAM.  Well,  you  see,  he  won't  believe  that. 

Bartht.  [Breaking  down,  dropping  hit  hands  on 
the  tails,  and  his  head  on  his  hands.]  Believe  it ! 
Oh,  I  beg  of  you  both — enough  I  It's  more  than 
I  can  bear ! 

La.urenc».  [Dssply  moved  at  his  distress,  and 
hastening  to  him.]  Bartley,  I  see  what  it  is.  You've 
a  wrong  idea  altogether.  Her  pride,  I  suppose — 
been  walking  on  stilts,  and  wouldn't  come  down. 
But  I  assure  you  she  doesn't  want  you  to  divorce 
her! 

Miriam.  No,  I  don't.  And  he  gave  me  a  chance 
yesterday.  He  told  me  he'd  forgive  me  if  I  promised 
never  to  see  you  again. 

Laurence.  [Staring  at  her  in  amazement.]  And 
you  wouldn't  ? 

Miriam.  Not  because  I  was  ordered  to.     No. 

Laurence.  But  that's  too  silly  ! 

Miriam.  [Thoughtfully.]  You  think  that  ? 

Laurence.  Of  course  I  do !  Of  course  !  Quite 
idiotic  !  [He  turns  to  Bartley.]  Of  course  she  won't 
see  me  again,  Bartley !  And,  at  any  rate,  I  swear 
to  you  I'll  never  see  her ! 

[Bartley,  his  head  still  bowed  on  his  hands, 
mutters  incoherently,  *'  I've  nothing  to  do 
with  you  I    I've  nothing  to  do  with  you  !  " 

Miriam.  [After  a  sympathetic  glance  at  Bartley.] 
But,  Laurence — my  freedom 


94  FREEDOM 

Lauhencb.  [Roughly.]  Oh,  blow  your  freedom! 
You're  his  wife — and  you  love  him !  "Why  not  do 
what  he  asks  you  ? 

Miriam,  I  will, 

Laurence.  [Eagerly^  to  Babtlby.]  There,  Bartley 
— there  !  you  hear  that  ? 

[Hartley   half  lifU  hU  head  and  looks  at 
Miriam. 

Miriam,  [^^odding.]  I  say  I  will.  I'll  obey,  in 
every  particular. 

Bartley.  [Sitspiciotisly.]  You  mean  that  ? 

Miriam.  I  came  here  to-day,  intending  to  say  it. 

Bartley.  Then  why  didn't  you  ? 

Miriam.  [Carelessly.]  Oh,   I   meant   to   try   first. 

.  .  And  you  seemed  so  set  on  a  divorce.  But  I'd 
rather  you  didn't.  /  don't  want  to  be  divorced,  any 
more  than  he  does.     Besides,  you'd  find  it  awkward 

the  servants  take  a  deal  of  looking  after.     And 

the  children  would  be  a  trouble.     You  see,  they're 
used  to  me. 

Bartley.  [Looking  avcay  from  her,  and  almost 
muttering  to  himstlf]  I  don't  know  whether  I'm  to 
take  this  seriously. 

Miriam.  Oh  yes — I'm  quite  in  earnest.  As  Lau- 
rence says,  I've  been  wrong. 

Laurence.  [Who  has  moved  away,  and  now  stands 
by  the  door  to  the  right,  muttering  to  himself]  I  said 

— I  said 

Bartley.  [Still  awkwardly,  and  without  looking  at 
her].  It's  a  pity  you  couldn't  last  night  .  .  . 


FREEDOM  95 

Miriam.  Last  night  I  was  headstrong  and  foolish 
— undeniably  foolish.  You  offered  me  your  forgive- 
ness last  night — I  beg  for  it  now.  I'll  go  on  my 
knees,  if  you  like.     Does  that  satisfy  you  ? 

Bartley.  [Hesitatingly.]  ...  I  suppose  that  it 
must  .  .  . 

Miriam.  Very  well,  then.  And  you  won't  divorce 
me? 

Bartley.  .  .  .  No.  .  .  . 

Miriam.  [Cheerfully.]  Thanks  very  much.  [She 
turns,  and  sees  Laurence,  who  is  still  standing  in  his 
comer,  not  quite  knowing  what  to  do,  whether  to  go  or 
stay.]  Dear  me,  Laurence — you  still  there?  That 
was  tactless, 

Laurence.  [Looking  rather  resentfully  at  her.]  I'm 
sorry.  But  I  wasn't  sure  whether  you  had  quite 
finished  with  me. 

Miriam.  Oh,  yes,  thanks.  And  I'm  really  obliged 
to  you — you've  been  splendid.  And  you'll  have  no 
difficulty  in  running  the  paper  on  Bartley's  lines — you 
see,  you  do  agree  with  him,  really. 

Laurence.  You  know  well  enough  that's  not  true. 
But  theories  and  ideas  go  for  nothing — when  a  man's 
suffering. 

Miriam.  That's  what  Mrs.  Collins  said  yester- 
day. 

Laurence.  I  don't  know  what  Mrs.  Collins  said 
yesterday.  I  only  know  that  I'm  not  ashamed  of  a 
single  word  Fve  said. 

Miriam.  [Sincerely.]  No,  no,  "why  should  you  be  ? 


96  FREEDOM 

And   I   mean  that — really,  I  do.     Good-bye.      My 
regards  to  Eve. 

Laueencb.  Bartlcy 

Bartlby.  [PFi^A  a  gestured]  Oh,  go  away,  please! 
Don't  start  again — on  me  ! 

Laueence.  No.  But  just  this.  I  bear  the  punish- 
ment— and  I'm  glad  I  do  bear  it.  That's  all.  Good- 
bye. 

[IFiVA  a  quiet  look  at  both  of  them,  he  goea 
through  the  door  to  the  right. 

MiEiAM.  [As  she  moves  to  the  table  and  picks  up  her 
bag,  preparatory  to  leaving.]  He  has  been  very  useful. 
I'm  afraid  it  wasn't  pleasant  for  you,  his  stopping 
here — but  I  wa«  anxious  that  you  should  know.  [She 
picks  up  her  bag  from  the  table.]  Are  you  coming  home 
to  lunch  ? 

Bartley.  I  can't.  I've  to  tell  Toby  about  the 
paper. 

Miriam.  Very  well.  You  won't  be  late.  I've  some 
shopping  to  do  this  afternoon — but  I'll  be  in  to  tea. 
By  the  way,  don't  forget  that  you've  promised  to 
look  in  at  Millby's  about  that  old  silver  jug — they're 
keeping  it  for  me — the  Batten  girl's  wedding,  you 
know.  Make  them  show  you  the  two — the  one's 
fifteen  guineas,  and  the  other  twelve. 

[She  goes  to  the  glass  door. 

Bartley.  [Getting  up  and  going  to  her.]  One  minute. 
I  don't  know  what  you've  got  at  the  back  of  your 
head.  But  I'm  quite  willing  —  to  let  bygones  be 
bygones. 


FREEDOM  97 

M1RIA.M.  [At  tha  door,  speaking  over  har  shoulder.] 
That's  very  good  of  you. 

Babtlhy.  Never  mind  whether  I'm  good  or  not. 
I'm  willing  to  forget,  that's  all. 

Miriam.  [With  a  gentle  shrug.]  Why  not? 

Baetlbt.  And  how  about  you  ? 

Miriam.  Me?  [She  half  turns  rotmd, 

Bartlet.  Yea,  you.  All  this  is  unnatural — first 
your  violent  protest — and  then  this  sudden  meekness. 
What  does  it  mean  ? 

Miriam.  [Quietli/.]  Merely  that  I  don't  want  to  be 
taken  from  my  children. 

Bartlet.  [Ifodding.]  I  see.  And  I,  I  suppose, 
am  a  brute  to  have  suggested  it  ? 

Miriam.  It  certainly  never  entered  my  head  that 
you'd  do  that. 

Bartlet.  Perhaps  you'll  tell  me  what  else  I  could  do? 

Miriam.  [Turning  completely  round  and  facing 
him,  a  note  of  passion  coming  into  her  voice  for  the 
first  time.]  What  else  !  You  were  willing  to  drag  me 
to  a  Law-Oourt — and  then  fling  me  to  him ! 

Bartlet.  [Muttering  angrily.]  Fling — fling — ^what 
d'you  mean,  fling  ?    All  I  said  was 

Miriam.  You  were  willing  that  I  should  pass  out 
of  your  life — pass  out  completely,  as  though  I  never 
had  been !  You  to  whom  I  went  as  a  girl,  to  whom 
I've  borne  children !  You'd  have  let  them  cry  for 
me — and  I  not  there — my  two  babies  !  And  all  this 
because,  for  one  moment,  I  had  looked  away — from 
you! 

o 


98  FREEDOM 

Bartley.  [Angrili/.']  You've  no  right  to  say  that. 
I  offered  yesterday 

Miriam.  I  told  you  why  I  refused — let  you  look 
into  me — oh,  Bartley,  I  told  you  I  loved  you,  you 
knew  that  I  loved  you — but  that  wasn't  enough.  The 
years  we  had  lived  together,  the  memories  we  had  in 
common — all  that  didn't  matter.  I  was  to  be  sent 
away — handed  over — to  the  first  passer-by. 

Bartley.  [Shouting.]  But  it's  nonsense,  all  this — 
sheer  nonsense ! 

Miriam.  Is  it,  Bartley — is  it?  The  Law,  that 
you're  so  fond  of,  allows  you  to  hit  the  mother 
through  her  children.  You'd  have  taken  them  from 
me — because  that's  the  Right — of  the  Male  .  .  . 
Very  well — I  obey.  And  you  shall  have  no  cause 
for  complaint  in  the  future.  There  shall  be  no  other 
man  in  my  life — but — neither — shall  there  be 
you. 

Bartley.  [N'odding  sulkily.]  Yea — I'm  not  sur- 
prised.    I  half  expected  that. 

Miriam.  [Passionately.]  At  least,  so  much  of  Free- 
dom may  be  left  me  !  I  have  to  buy  the  permission 
to  stay  with  my  children — I  need  not  pay  with 
myself ! 

Bartley.  That  shall  be  as  you  will.  I  made  no 
conditions — I  stick  to  that.  Only — let  me  tell  you — 
every  word  you  have  said — is  monstrously  cruel  and 
unjust. 

Miriam.  [Coldly.]  You  think  that  ? 

Bartley.    Most    emphatically   I    do.     In    plain 


FREEDOM  99 

English,  I've  been  faithful  to  you,  and  you  haven't  to 
me.     That's  all  it  amounts  to. 

Miriam.  [SorrowfuUi/.]  Faithful,  Bartley  I  Oh,  is 
there  only  one  kind  of  fidelity — our  miserable  body  ! 
And  have  you  been  faithful — you  who  were  willing  to 
send  me  away?  Fou  might  have  committed  every 
crime  in  the  world — and  I'd  have  stood  by  you ! 

Bartley.  So  would  I  —  you  know  that  —  but 
this 

Miriam.  Yes — this — that  means  bo  little — is  the 
greatest  crime  of  all — to  the  Male  I  [She  turns  to  the 
door.]  Well — in  time  you  may  think  differently . 
Time  does  strange  things. 

Bartley.  [Deficmtly.]  I  shall  never  think  difierently 
— never — be  quite  sure  of  that  1  And  these  things 
you've  been  saying — I  can't  shuffle  words,  I  can't 
pick  up  arguments — but  I  know  they're  not  true. 
They're  simply  not  human — men  and  women  couldn't 
go  on  existing — ^the  whole  world  would  have  to  change  ! 
I've  been  a  good  husband  and  father — and  you 
weren't  content  with  just  being  my  wife.  You've 
done  wrong — and  you  can't  see  it.  That's  tragedy 
enough — but  at  least  don't  think  you're  entitled — to 
put  the  blame — on  me ! 

Miriam.  [Calmli/.]  Let  us  leave  it  there,  Bartley — 
and  take  up  our  lives  again.  There  is  much  we  can 
do.  [She  turns  to  the  door. 

Bartley.  [Bitterli/.']  And  this  great  love  you  spoke 
of!     What  of  that? 

Miriam.  [Turning  and  looking  at  him.]  It  is  there 


100  FREEDOM 

waiting.    It  is  there!  .  .  .  [She  turns  from  him,  and 
opens  the  door.]  Shall  I  send  the  car  for  you? 
Bartlky.  [Sulkily,  as  fie  moves  away.]  No,  no. 
Miriam.  You'll  ring  if  you  want  it.    And  I  shall 
expect  you  to  tea. 

[She  goes,  and  shuts  the  door.  Bartlet  stands 
there  for  a  momtnt,  muttering  to  himself 
"  Damned  nonsense — that's  what  it  is — 
damned  nonsense !  "  then  goes  to  his  table, 
sits,  passes  his  hands  wearily  over  his  brow, 
and  rings.  After  a  moment  Balderton 
comes  in  with  the  bag. 
Balderton.  The  clothes,  sir  ? 
Bartley.  Yes. 

Balderton.  Shall  I  take  them  out,  sir  ? 
Bartley.  No,  no,  I'll  do  it  myself.     Just  put  the 
bag  down. 

Balderton.  Very  well,  sir.  [He  crosses  over  and 
puts  the  bag  on  a  chair  by  the  table^^  Anything  else, 
sir? 

Bartley.  No,  no,  thanks.     By  the  way,  I'm  in  to 
no  one  except  Mr.  Paming.     You  understand  ? 
Balderton.  Yes,  sir.  Yes. 

[He  goes,  and  shuts  the  door,  Bartley  rises 
slowly,  still  muttering  to  himself,  stretches 
and  yavons,  goes  to  the  bag,  and  begins  to 
take  out  the  clothes.  There  is  a  knock  at 
the  glass  door.  He  stops,  and  lifts  his  head 
eagerly.  The  knock  is  repeated,  and  Eve, 
of,  calls  "  Bartley ! " 


FREEDOM  101 

Babtlky.  [Eappily.]  Eve! 

[ffe  hastem  to  the  door  and  flings  it  op&n.  Eva 
comes  in.  He  shuts  the  door,  goes  eagerly 
to  her,  and  Iiolds  out  both  his  hands. 

Babtlev.  Oh,  I'm  so  glad  yonVe  come !  Eve  I 
I'm  so  glad ! 

EvB.  [Shyly.]  I  thought  you'd  like 

Babtlky.  Miriam's  been  here — Toby — all  telling 
me  I've  been  wrong  1 

Eve.  I  met  Miriam  on  the  stairs. 

Babtlby.  Did  she  say  anything  ? 

Eve.    No.    She  just  smiled,  and  nodded. 

Babtlby.  You  should  have  heard  her — oh,  you 
should  have  heard  her !  It's  I  am  to  blame — only  I ! 
I  who  loved  her — you  know  how  I  loved  her !  And 
this — this!  Wouldn't  you  have  thought  it  im- 
possible ? 

Eve.  [As  she  sits  on  the  so/a.]  He's  my  husband. 

Babtlby.  [Sitting  beside  her.]  Yes,  yes,  of  course — 
you've  suffered  too.     Did  you  suspect 

Eve.  [Very  simply.]  Oh,  I  knew.  I  always  get  to 
know,  sooner  or  later. 

Babtlby.  [Dropping  her  hand^  Always!  Then 
there  have  been  others ! 

Eve.  Oh  yes.  Before  we'd  been  married  a  year, 
there  was — another. 

Babtlby.  Eve! 

Eve,  And  there  have  been  more — since  then. 

Babtlby.  And  you  have  endured  it — allowed  it  i 


102  FREEDOM 

EvB.  What  can  one  do  ?  I've  been  very  miserable, 
of  course.     But  it  happens  to  so  many  women. 

Bartlet.  And  you've  actually  been  able — to  go  on 
seeing  Miriam — although  you  knew  .  .  . 

Eva.  Oh  yes. 

Bartlit.  You  could — you  could — do  that ! 

Eve.  Oh,  Bartley,  what  difference  could  it  make — 
whether  I  saw  her,  or  not  ? 

Bartley.  Wag  that  why  you  broke  down  last 
night? 

Eve.  I  don't  often  give  way.  I  was  dreadfully 
ashamed.    You  see,  I  love  him. 

Bartlht.  Notwithstanding  all,  you  still  lore  him  ? 

Eve.  One  loves,  because  one  loves.  I  suppose 
women  are  like  that.  At  least  some  women.  They 
just  cry  a  little,  and  go  on  darning  the  children's 
clothes.  "■ 

Bartley.  [yervousli/.]  Then  you  think  I've  been 
wrong,  too  ? 

Eve.  [Very  earnestly.]  Oh  no,  Bartley,  I  don't.  It's 
different  for  a  man.  And  I'm  very  sorry.  I  told 
Laurence,  when  he  was  so  sure  you  wouldn't 
mind  .  .  . 

Bartley.  He  really,  really  could  think 

Eve.  Oh  yes.  You've  no  idea  how  unhappy  he 
was  last  night.  I've  never  seen  him  so  unhappy. 
He  has  very  few  man  friends — he  has  never  cared  for 
any  one  as  much  as  he  does  for  you. 

Bartley.  [Throwing  up  his  hands.]  That's  beyond 
everything ! 


FREEDOM  108 

EvB.  You  Bee,  they're  different,  Miriam  and  he. 
They're  both  bo  clever.     They  talk  guch  a  lot. 

Bartley.  [Bitterly.]  Yes — ^f  ull  of  wonderful  reasons 
— and  so  forth.     Well — we  suffer. 

Eve.  It's  hard  on  you,  Bartley.  You  didn't 
deserve  it.     I'm  dreadfully  sorry. 

Bartley.  Miriam  spoke — about  you  and  me. 

Eve.  Did  she  ?     That  was  silly  of  her. 

Bartley.  Not  suggesting  anything,  of  course — but 
merely  saying  that  if  it  had  been 

Eve.  I  daresay.  That's  how  they  feel — they  don't 
quite  understand.  Laurence  always  tells  me  I'm  as 
free  as  he  is.  That  he  wouldn't  blame  me.  And, 
really,  I  don't  think  he  would. 

Bartley.  "Well,  of  course,  he  can't  love  you. 

Eve.  Oh  yes,  he  does,  in  his  way.  More  than  any 
of  the  others,  I'm  sure.  But  men  like  him  can't 
really  love  any  woman.  They  put  them  into  their 
books,  they  get  a  great  deal  out  of  them.  And  I 
believe  that's  why  he  attracts  women — because  he 
can't  love  them.     He  always  comes  back — to  me. 

Bartley.  And  that  satisfies  you  ? 

Eve.  "What  can  one  do?  It  was  very  hard,  at 
first.     I  found  out,  quite  by  chance. 

Bartley.  And  he  wouldn't  give  her  up  ? 

Eye.  He  swore  that  he  would — but  he  didn't,  of 
course.  And,  as  I've  said,  there've  been  others,  since 
then.  And  will  be  more.  I  sometimes  think  I'd  like 
to  have  their  photographs — and  keep  them  in  a 
special  album.     It  would  have  to  be  quite  a  large  one. 


104  FREEDOM 

Babtlxt.  Ton  take  it  like  that  ? 

'Eye.  It's  the  best  way,  isn't  it  ff  Happier  for  the 
children. 

Bartley.  And  you — you — ^though  he  told  you  you 
were  free — you've  always  been  content  ? 

EvB.  Oh,  yes.     You  see,  I'm  different. 

Bartley.;  [With  a  nod.]  Yes.  Tou  are  the— old- 
fashioned  woman. 

EvB.  I'm  not  old-fashioned  or  new-fashioned — I'm 
just — like  that. 

Bastlvt.  What  do  you  mean  ? 

Ev«.  [Shaking  ?ier  head.]  I  don't  know.  But,  what- 
eyer  they  do,  or  laws  that  they  make,  there'll  always 
be  some  in  whose  life  there'll  be  only  one  man. 
Women  like  me. 

Bartlxy.  [Eamesilj/.]  Yes — I  believe  that.  And 
that's  why  I  want  the  paper  to  go  on. 

EvB.  It  is  going  on  ? 

Barthjy.  Yes.    He'll  be  editor  again. 

Eve.  Oh,  I'm  glad. 

Bartley.  Just  because  of  him  ? 

Ete.  Not  only  that.  It  does  good.  There  are 
many  women  it  helps. 

Bartley,  fm  going  out  of  it,  Eve.  And  Miriam, 
She  has  consented  to  give  him  up. 

Eve.  Of  course. 

Bartley.  [Grumbling.]  Oh,  there  wasn't  so  much 
"  of  course  "  about  it.     She  gives  me  up  too. 

Eve,  Does  she  ? 

Bartley.  Yes.     What  do  you  think  of  that  ? 


FREEDOM  105 

Eve.  I  don't  know.  I  dare  say  she'll  come  back, 
as  he  does. 

Bartley.  You  imagine  I'll  wait  ? 

Eve.  I  suppose  so.     Yes. 

Bartley.  Well,  I  won't.     I'll  go  away. 

Eve.  Where? 

Bartley.  Oh,  anywhere.  I'll  go  and  work.  Do 
something. 

Eve.  You'll  come  back,  Bartley  ? 

Bartley.  Of  course  I'll  come  back  to  my  children. 
But  I've  lost  my  faith.  Eve.  The  paper  shall  go  on 
— yes — because  that  wasn't  what  we  were  working  for. 

Eve.  Yes,  it  was. 

Bartley.  What  do  you  mean  ? 

Eve.  You  can't  make  women  free  in  one  way 
and  not  in  another.  [She  nse».]  Well,  I  must  go 
home. 

Bartley.  [Rising  vnth  her.']  Why  ? 

Eve.  Laurence  is  lunching  at  home,  and  he  likes 
me  to  be  there.     Especially  when  he's  upset. 

Bartley.  Notwithstanding  everything,  notwith- 
standing everything,  you  always  do  what  he  wants  ? 

Eve.  [Very  simply^  Oh,  yes.  And  if  I  were  you, 
Bartley,  I  wouldn't  go  away.  Why  should  you  ? 
You  can  work  here  just  as  well.  And  the  children 
would  miss  you.  And  Miriam  loves  you,  you  know. 
She  has  only  done  this  because  she's  so  clever. 

Bartley.  [Going  to  the  glass  door  vrith  her — opening 
it,  then  suddenly  stopping.]  Eve — just  tell  me — you 
don't  think  I've  been  wrong  ? 

H 


106  FREEDOM 

EvK.  [Very  earnestly.]  Oh,  no,  Bartley — really  I 
don't — not  in  the  least ! 

Bartley.  And  yet  you  think  it  right  that  women 
should  be  free  ? 

EvK.  Oh,  Bartley,  it's  difficult  to  explain.  But  I 
do  believe  that,  some  day,  when  they've  got  their 
freedom,  they'll  learn  how  to  use  it.     Good-bye. 

[ITifA  a  nod,  she  goes.  Bartley  closes  the 
door,  returns  to  the  chair  on  which  the 
hag  is,  and  begins  to  take  out  the  clothes. 
The  curtain  faUt. 


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